I’m a grandfather. I didn’t just become one—I’ve been one for fifteen years. And I’ve got six wonderful grandchildren—with a seventh on the way, praise be to God!

Actually, I should say Marilyn and I are grandparents. Marilyn is the good grandparent, the cuddly one, the one to whom the grandchildren naturally gravitate. I’m the old grouchy guy over in the corner. We live about three hours from our grandkids, so we don’t see them as much as we wish, but when we’re able, the six run to us with welcome glee! After a quick perfunctory hug around my legs, they generally quickly bolt over to their grandmother. This is probably why that old Christmas poem doesn’t say, “Over the river and through the woods, to grandfather’s house we go.”

The most often time we get to see at least a portion of Jon Marc & Teresa’s brood is when Jon Marc drives down for two days each month to tape episodes for EWTN’s The Journey Home program. For over fifteen years, we’ve been taping these programs in the small studio at the headquarters of the Coming Home Network, and whenever Jon Marc comes down, he brings with him at least two or three of his chillens.

Maybe this is also true of some of you, but it wasn’t until I started having grandchildren that I realized I wasn’t very comfortable with young children. I used to jokingly call young children “rug rats”, “crumb crunchers”, or “ankle biters”, but it never struck me until I became a grandfather that I really believed this!

Even though I was far from the perfect father, bringing up our three sons from birth through the crazy years and on into manhood was not a big problem—we essentially walked together step by step through these years. Sure, I struggled with understanding them at their different ages, and pulled my hair out trying to communicate with them, but I just figured this was normal—in fact, all the other fathers I knew reported similar conundrums, and we all lost hair at similar intervals.

But with grandchildren it’s been different. We live hours apart, and though through the benefits of modern media, I have more ways to see and hear and come to know them then any previous distant grandparents in history, still in many ways, they are more like strangers to me than my own sons ever were.

When I was still working and Jon Marc would bring a sampling of his brood into town, I would escape soon after breakfast to spend the day safely at the Office, leaving Marilyn, the good grandmother, to lovingly mother the kids. But now that I’m retired, I have no good excuse to escape. But this, of course, is how God knocks the rough edges off a long neglected, rusty old artifact.

Last night, Jon Marc drove into town with three children. After a pleasant, relaxing evening, a half-relaxing night, and a bit crazy of a morning, Jon Marc took his oldest son into the Office for the tapings, leaving an eight-year-old daughter and a six-year old son into our care.

As I said, I no longer had the easy excuse to high-tail it while the getting was good, so instead, I bravely volunteered to take the kids under my wing, at least for the morning, as a respite to my wife: a grampa’s morning out.

After first failing at helping them slide down our steep front hill (a half-inch of snow wasn’t conducive to more than a five-inch slide), I strapped them into the car, and we headed off for a morning full of critters.

We first stopped by Tractor Supply where they visited six cages of young chicks and goslings.

We then bopped across the street to romp freely around the local pet store: aquariums full of fish, turtles, frogs, snails, and eels; cages of cats, birds, guinie pigs, even a tarantula!

Then after a quick stop for ice cream, we went to our local farmer friend to pick up our weekly allotment of raw milk and eggs. There we visited a half dozen beautiful Jersey cows, with a month old calf; a dozen or so goats, a few barn cats, and a clutch of free-ranging Bantam chickens.

We got back to our “farm” all in one piece, and the two “crumb-crunchers” gave a very kind, glowing report to their warm, cuddly grandmother.

Later, after a needed rest and a rejuvenating coffee, they took me on a mile-long romp through the wilderness of our farm.

So, how does this crotchety, old, less-than-naturally-affectionate grandfather handle his grandchildren? This might be a funny way to put it, but I worded it this way for a reason. There’s a wonderful, touching song from the hit musical Camelot that almost always chokes me up when I hear it. It goes like this, with King Arthur asking his wise guide, Merlin:

“How to handle a woman? There’s a way,” said the wise old man,
“A way known by ev’ry woman since the whole rigmarole began.”
“Do I flatter her?” I begged him answer. “Do I threaten or cajole or plead?
Do I brood or play the gay romancer?” Said he, smiling: “No indeed.
How to handle a woman? Mark me well, I will tell you, sir:
The way to handle a woman is to love her… simply love her… 
Merely love her… love her… love her.”

I’ve always considered this good advice for husbands, but I’ve learned that it’s also extremely good advice for fathers, as well as grouchy, curmudgeon old grandfathers, like me. 

Simply love them.