Communication with words and love
By Jean Robertson - 28/12/2006
My first grandchild, Zak was born in July 1996, when I was 65. I decided that I would keep a diary for him, writing a short paragraph each time we met until he reached the age of 5. After that I assumed he would retain memories of his own, but from 0 – 5 he would not recall the landmarks of his young life.
The first entry is to record Zak’s birth: “3 July 1996: You were born today at about 6.45 a.m., to the great joy of everyone. It is a Wednesday, and a day we shall always remember. You weighed in at 8 lbs 13 oz., a hefty baby. I telephoned our good friends the Severis in Rome, to tell them the happy news because today is also the wedding day of their second son Luca – so cause for joint celebrations and congratulations”
I also recorded a letter from the Severis sent when they knew Zak was on the way – Angelo wrote: “A new birth, it is always a beautiful thing – it is hope of eternity, and certitude of love, long life for the baby, parents, grandparents and aunt. Everything will go on and you all will bless this birthday.” There are photographs, there is the parking ticket our son fixed to his car when he went to attend the birth…memorabilia, trivia, but special too.
Even now and still more when a teenager he will not want to know of the diary, I think, but like all young children he has constantly asked about and been fascinated by stories about his own father’s childhood. Things he got up to, catch phrases which still exist in the family, such as “Why is it the morning park, Nan?” “Because we used to come here in the mornings.” “So where is the afternoon park?” “We did not have a regular afternoon park, it could be one of several, but the morning park was always this one I take you to now”.
Perhaps when Zaak has children of his own and they ask about his childhood the diary will fulfil a function. It is written with affection.
Communication between grandparent and grandchild - are we the same age?
Communication between grandparent and grandchild is fascinating. Holding Zak, talking to him, getting him to clutch my finger whilst I told him stories, all this went on from a very early age. Later I wrote him stories, beginning “Once upon a time there was a boy called Zak…..” for both birthday and Christmas time. As he has got older the stories have a different tone – no longer derring do and excitement, but some social history in the form of descriptions of my parents and the way they spent Christmas, in more straightened times. No gadgetry, no televisions, no electronic games or computers – but charades and singing and a big family romp. My mother was one of 12 children, so Christmas time was always tumultuous.
Another form of communication came through treasure hunts, with initially someone having to read to Zak some simple rhyming clues. His wish to be able to read the clues himself encouraged him to work out the letters and finally to read.
Nowadays Zak will pick up my post-it notes and do a treasure hunt for me, with a peppermint at the end or a conker or a rubber he has found somewhere.
I have also from an early age sent Zak letters. He likes to see an envelope with his name coming through the letter box. It might just be a funny postcard inside or a letter but he opens it himself and from an early age liked the idea of communication. There is always a date on my missive, and it starts “Dear Zak”… and ends “Love from Nan and Grandpa”.
We chat on the telephone, but more often our good conversations are face to face, when we are out and about together, perhaps going to a museum during half term or other school holidays, when he will come to stay. He tells me things, and I listen. I know if something is worrying him, at school or at home. I know how pleased he was when his poem was read out in assembly at school.
And we also cook together – we make curry (I taught him to use a sharp knife carefully) and he cuts up the green peppers and carrots and onions, laughing when they make him cry. And we make pancakes and wicked profiteroles.
I think we feel the same age, which is how I felt with my own grandmother. Is it my second childhood which makes me feel this? Perhaps so, but it is a wonderful feeling.