There’s a peculiar magic that sneaks into your life when the grandkids arrive.
It doesn’t knock; it just lets itself in—tracked mud, sticky fingers, improbable laughter—and suddenly the day feels wider than it did an hour ago.
In my sixties, grandparenthood hasn’t made me younger; it’s made me more awake. I notice the light differently. I unlearn my rush. I remember why any of this matters.
Here are ten ways being a grandparent has me falling in love with life all over again.
1. I move at kid speed—and the world finally comes into focus
Have you ever walked three blocks in twenty minutes because a five-year-old had to investigate every ant, leaf, and mailbox flag? It’s a masterclass in presence. When I match their pace, details pop: the smell of rain on warm pavement, the tiny crack in the sidewalk shaped like a lightning bolt, the myna that heckles from the eucalyptus as if it pays the mortgage.
I used to barrel past all that on “important” errands. Now, the errand is the walk. We wave at bus drivers. We count red doors. We wait for snails like they’re royalty crossing the road. Falling in love with life again sometimes looks like arriving late with a grin and a pocket full of acorns.
2. I get a second chance at the simple rituals I rushed the first time
When my kids were small, I measured mornings in tasks: pack lunches, find shoes, sign permission slips, locate the mysterious “blue folder.” The love was real; the pace was merciless. With grandkids, the clock loosens its grip. Pancakes can be slightly lopsided. Bedtime stories can go long. A blanket fort can stand in the living room like a monument to civilized chaos.
We build rituals now that don’t require perfection—Friday pancake faces, Saturday park benches, postcards “from” dinosaurs who “visited” the backyard. As I covered in a previous post, consistency beats spectacle. These tiny rhythms are how the day learns to feel friendly again.
3. I borrow their questions—and my curiosity gets its legs back
“Why are clouds allowed to move?”
“Who decided dogs can’t talk?”
“Is the moon tired?”
Try answering those without Googling. Grandkids ambush you with wonder you can’t fake. I find myself reading about beetles and stars and how bread rises like it’s trying to sit up in bed. I carry their questions on my walk and bring back half-answers with better questions. It’s a joy I didn’t realize I missed—the kind that turns your browser history into a museum gift shop.
The side effect? I look up more. I eavesdrop on trees. I let “I don’t know—let’s find out” be the most honest, generous sentence in the room.
4. I laugh from the good lungs
There’s laughter you do to be polite, and there’s laughter that shoves air through your old ribs like spring cleaning. Grandkids specialize in the second kind. Knock-knock jokes with no punchlines. The first time they say “espresso” like a spell. The way they whisper secrets that are 90% breath and 10% plot.
We make up songs about socks. We name pigeons after fruit. We mispronounce everything on purpose. And I catch myself laughing so hard my glasses fog. It’s medicine with no side effects, unless you count the neighbors thinking you’ve joined a joy cult.
5. I relearn bravery in miniature
A toddler at the top of the slide negotiating with gravity is a portrait of courage. So is a shy kid deciding to say hello to the new boy at the park. I used to reserve the word “brave” for big gestures. Now I see it everywhere small: tasting a suspicious-looking green thing, asking the cashier for a napkin, apologizing first.
When I cheer their small brave, my own grows by association. I send the email. I make the doctor’s appointment. I try the new route. They climb a little higher; I call the plumber without rehearsing a speech. Turns out bravery enjoys company.
6. I get to love without the ledger
Parenting had a background hum of math: money, sleep, time, logistics. Grandparenting lets me turn the calculator face-down. I’m not counting vegetables or minutes of screen-time as often; I’m counting smiles and pages read and how many worms we relocated from the hot sidewalk to the shade.
I still help with the tough stuff—bedtimes, meltdowns, broccoli diplomacy—but the balance has shifted toward unearned delight. I bring stickers for no reason. I keep a stash of crayons that only appear at my table. Love, when it isn’t anxious about proving itself, gets lighter and louder. It spills.
7. I rediscover my hands
We glue googly eyes to pinecones. We whisk eggs with exaggerated seriousness. We draw maps to imaginary treasure and then get lost on purpose. Being a grandparent put my hands back into my life. I fix a wobbly wheel on a toy dinosaur and feel like a surgeon on a movie set. We plant basil in a pot and talk to it like it’s a shy guest.
Making things—even small, crooked, washable things—puts that alive look back in a day. I clean up glitter with the resignation of a man who knows he’ll sparkle for three weeks. I don’t mind. Glitter is just evidence of joy with terrible boundaries.
8. I learn to edit my urgency
Grandkids will expose your tone. If I rush them, they wilt. If I narrate with patience, they bloom. “Shoes, please,” works better than, “We’re late!” “Let’s try again,” beats, “How many times do I have to say…?” This doesn’t make me a saint; it makes me strategic. I want a calm kid and a usable afternoon, not a perfect schedule.
And when I miss the mark (I do), I apologize at their eye level. “Granddad snapped. I’m sorry.” Repair, it turns out, refreshes me as much as it heals them. The day softens. We carry on with a better map.
9. I feel my parents in the room—and we get another chance together
Watching my grandson bounce on the same park bench where I once sat with my own father is a soft kind of time travel. I hear my mother in my mouth when I say, “Keys in the bowl, please.” I also get to edit the scripts I didn’t love. I replace “Stop crying” with “You’re safe to feel.” I replace “Because I said so” with one clean sentence of “why.”
Grief and gratitude braid together here. I miss my parents so acutely when the little ones reach for my hand that it hurts in a good way. Then I make a grandparent move they would have loved—buy two extra plums for the ride home—and it feels like we’re all walking together for a minute.
10. I plan smaller, savor more, and the ordinary starts to glow
Grandkids are a standing invitation to downshift. Big plans crumble under nap schedules and weather tantrums. Small plans thrive. “Let’s feed the ducks.” “Let’s make faces in the window.” “Let’s read three pages and see what happens.” When you lower the bar from “memorable” to “present,” the day surprises you.
We end up with afternoons I couldn’t have scripted—four perfect jumps in a puddle, a conversation about why shadows follow us but never lead, a quiet minute sharing slices of apple on a shady bench. I come home with muddy shoes and a heart that feels like it got new windows.
A tiny story from the park
There’s a boy who brings a toy bus to our park and narrates routes to nowhere: “Next stop, strawberry station!” One morning he handed me the bus with ceremonial gravity. “You drive.” I pushed it two inches and made a surprisingly realistic engine sound (my finest work). He nodded as if I’d passed a test. For ten minutes, I was the bus driver. Passengers boarded: a pinecone, a bottle cap, and a serious leaf. We were all on time.
His mother smiled like she’d been granted a coffee break by the Department of Miracles. I handed the bus back and thought: I haven’t had that much fun doing nothing since I was eight. I walked home lighter than any gym session could manage.
What grandparenthood taught me about love (again)
Love can be quiet and still count. It’s permission, not performance. It’s patience with a spine. It’s a handful of grapes split unevenly in their favor and no one calls it unfair. It’s the phone left in a drawer because a cardboard box needs to become a spaceship right now and spacetime is delicate.
It’s also finite energy stewarded well. I say yes more, and I say no earlier. “We’re done for today.” “Granddad needs a sit-down.” Boundaries are kindness to future afternoons. When I honor mine, I like the man they get. He’s less brittle. He’s more fun. He doesn’t huff at zippers.
A simple template that keeps the glow going
If you’re lucky enough to have small humans in your orbit, here’s the light outline that’s working for me:
-
One ritual they can predict. Pancake faces Friday. Bench by the ducks Sunday.
-
One walk with no agenda. We stop for everything that begs noticing.
-
One make-and-tidy. We create something tiny, then we put two things away—together.
-
One honest check-in. “Granddad is tired.” “Granddad is happy.” “Granddad needs help.”
-
One photo in my head, not my phone. I describe it later in a line or two. It sticks better.
If a day unravels, we salvage five minutes of reading. Books glue afternoons back together.
The short version you can keep handy
Grandkids slow you down until the world comes into focus. They hand you second chances at rituals, wake up your questions, and make you laugh with the good lungs. They teach miniature bravery, let you love without the ledger, return your hands to useful mischief, and help you edit your urgency. They pull your parents into the room and ask you to savor small plans until the ordinary glows.
In other words, they remind you how to fall in love with life—messy, muddy, miraculous life—again and again.
So, what’s the tiny thing you’ll do with (or for) a little one this week—feed ducks, build a wobbly fort, or simply walk at kid speed and see what the world has been trying to show you all along?
