I’ll be the first to admit it: my grandchildren are quietly running a master class on life—and I apparently missed the syllabus the first time around when my own sons were small. Either that, or I’ve reached that magical age where I finally stop doing and start watching. In any case, two recent observations hit me square between the laugh lines.
Lesson one was delivered from a pulpit.
Well… technically a highchair.
My six-month-old grandson was deep into what I can only describe as competitive binge feeding. This kid wasn’t eating—he was strategically stockpiling. Evidently, cheeks are not merely decorative. They are, in fact, USDA-approved storage facilities. Ask any chipmunk. They’ll back me up.
Eventually, the reserves ran dry. The chewing stopped. And then… he looked at me.
Not a baby look.
A thinking look.
The kind of look that suggests a board meeting has just been called in the brain.
I, foolishly, chose to escalate the situation.
I extended my hand.
Index finger out.
Peacefully.
Innocently.
Like a man who has no idea what’s about to happen.
He freezes.
Looks at my finger.
Looks at me.
Then—as if summoned by the gods themselves—he extends his tiny finger toward mine.
Six months old.
Mirroring Papa.
Ladies and gentlemen, time stopped.
If you’ve ever seen Michelangelo’s The Creation of Adam, you know the moment. God. Adam. Fingers extended. Almost touching.
Now replace the clouds with a highchair.
The Sistine Chapel with a kitchen.
And Adam with a drooling human hamster.
Boom.
That was us.
I turned to his parents and made a solemn declaration:
“My grandchildren will never—ever—see me smoking a cigar.”
I don’t know what that had to do with anything either, but it felt important at the time.
Lesson two was less divine but equally profound.
Observe a toddler. Anywhere. My case study occurred at Narragansett Beach—Chair Five.
My granddaughters were digging. Building. Engineering elaborate sand defenses clearly designed to halt the relentless advance of the Atlantic Ocean.
And here’s the miracle:
Perfect posture.
No bending at the waist.
No herniated dreams.
They squat—knees bent, backs straight—like Olympic powerlifters who moonlight as sand architects. L4 and L5? Completely safe. Untouched. Untormented.
No one taught them this.
To confirm, I asked my daughter-in-law.
She confirmed: completely natural.
Which means at some point, adulthood introduced us to a more advanced, hazardous technique involving bending, twisting, overconfidence, and a loud noise followed by regret.
But hey—someone has to keep orthopedic surgeons employed.
And physical therapists.
I mean… have a heart.
I can’t wait to see what lesson comes next.
I just hope I’m around long enough to keep taking notes—because apparently, the smallest humans in the room already have it all figured out.
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