There is the expense of course, the bank of Mum and Dad, seemingly forever, but that’s all right. It’s what parents do.
I loved being a dad, I loved everything about it from changing the dirty nappies to sitting up at night when they were teenagers at parent-supervised parties, waiting for the pre-arranged time to drive through the night to uplift them and bring them home safely.
I loved playing games and sport with the kids, being there, just watching them grow from babies to young adults with all the hopes and dreams all young people hopefully have. Carting them around to sport and culture stuff.
Being the uncool dad who had to park down the road from school or parties so that I would not embarrass them in front of their friends.
We were Waifless in Whanganui, not Sleepless in Seattle, for about 10 years, until artist daughter returned in 2009. She settled back in her hometown with her degree, active in the music and art scene with landscaper/muso son-in-law and earning her daily crust as a rehabilitation coach for men with very severe traumatic brain injury.
Her younger brother, constable son, arrived on transfer with dental daughter-in-law, Miss 5-year-old and Miss 2-year-old recently.
So after our first child left home in 1994 we now have both our children nearby again. Back in or near Whanganui where they grew up and where all their childhood memories and many friends are, many having drifted back here to live, work and raise families, repeating the cycle of life in provincial New Zealand.
Of course, some children never return except to visit. They make their lives elsewhere, often offshore as is the way with young New Zealanders. No doubt many of their parents harbour deep loving thoughts about one day seeing them come home again.
Being a parent is all about love and wanting the best for your child. Well, it is in my world.
However, in recent years I have also discovered the joys of being a poppa to two little munchkins. It’s even better than being a dad.
All care, no responsibility. We get to see our little ones often now, part of their lives more than we used to be. We get to spoil them rotten, usually consulting a parent first of course.
They arrive in our quiet little love shack on the hill, full of quilt stuff and books, old people’s stuff, and in an instant, it’s like a bomb has gone off in the house. The toy box, containing mostly toys from their father’s and aunt’s childhoods, is spread around the lounge and dining area. Biscuits or lollies are eaten, crumbs everywhere.
Miss 5-year-old is now a quiet, clever little girl who enjoys her art and reading while Miss 2-year-old has poppa’s phone watching Bluey on Netflix.
Oh, that’s right, Poppa has signed up to all the streaming channels, Disney, Neon, Netflix, YouTube, all for the pleasure of our little ones.
Every now and then there will be a fight, some tears, but then all friends again. I love sitting and just watching them play. They seem to grow and change so fast.
At the end of each visit the toys are packed away, usually by the parents with occasional help from the little ones. As toys go into the basket some are also pulled out for another quick play. It can take a while to clean up.
They all bid “bye-bye” to us and we both have a wee rest for a while, gathering ourselves. So much energy, so much noise and laughter.
Their parents decided that Welly was not the place they wanted to raise the kids in, but chose smalltown New Zealand. Miss 5-year-old goes to school about 100 metres from home, Miss 2-year-old has started kindy. Goodness, it seems only yesterday she was born.
So the cycle continues. One day both will leave home, possibly leave town to make their way in the world.
