Becoming a Boomer is not all it’s made out to be, even though they say we control 80% of all the spendable income in the United States. If that’s the case, Boomer wives control 99% of the 80%. So male Boomers aren’t much better off than they were as teenagers, when a gallon of gas sold for a quarter and vanilla Cokes at the malt shop were a dime
Also, with Boomer-hood, comes Arthur, whether you want him or not. Arthur as in “Arthur-itis”. Arthritis is God’s way of saying, “Don’t get too comfortable down there. Heaven is where you ultimately want to be.”
And remember the good old days when you could sleep in on Saturday’s, rising at the crack of noon? Good luck with that. Those born between 1945 and about 1962 are now discovering deep sleep as a fleeting memory – things like prostates, twitching legs and various aches and pains often make life more comfortable out of the bed. Wrinkles, where there used to be tight skin, potbellies and thinning hair (if you’re lucky) are other traits of Boomer-hood. When you scan the obits before you check out the ball scores, you have become an official Baby Boomer.
But to offset all the bad parts of being a Boomer comes the one true joy: grandkids.
Grandkids are not like ordinary children – the brats you raised, for example. They are always glad to see you and dispense hugs and kisses in abundance. As long as they are not too big to pick up, they will wrap themselves around you like a boa constrictor and hold on for dear life. Hugs like that are hard to come by. Amazingly, grandchildren are immune to the ordinary rules of child-raising. It’s okay if they eat candy, for example, and they never need punishment for anything (perish the thought). Unlike your rapscallions, they never ask for money – they don’t have to. You give it to them profusely.
With grandkids, it’s a mutual admiration society. Being with Big Daddy or Mimi means an escape from Alcatraz for the little munchkins. For a few precious days, they are spared the constant harping from over-protective parents – who actually make children wear those dorky bike helmets and eat celery sticks for snacks.
Coming to be called Big Daddy, Mimi, Oompah, Moompah or even Agha Khan is the holy rite of becoming a Boomer grandparent.
These precious infants really want to call you Mama and Papa, but your inconsiderate children have reserved those monikers for themselves. Now, a 9-month old child has to come up with a name. Whatever that first sound is that is aimed in your direction becomes your official name for the rest of your life and into the hereafter.
“Here lies ‘GrrDiddy’ Jones, once known as Harold L. Jones until his first grandchild spit out his peas and tried to say Grand Daddy at the same time.”
The best part of having grandchildren is Christmas and a return to the toy departments. What toy will bring the most happiness is the prime consideration. A Thomas Choo Choo Train, for example, is an overwhelming hit and brings hours and hours of contentment. And sometime the grandkids play with them, too.
Occasionally, a Boomer is allowed in on a Christmas morning with grandchildren – complete with Santa’s cookie crumbs, empty milk glasses and stockings overflowing with goodies.
For Boomers, Christmas with a grandchild makes arthritis a rather minor inconvenience.