No one really knows for sure who wrote these famous words:
What are little boys made of?
What are little boys made of?
Snips, snails
And puppy dogs’ tails
That’s what little boys are made of
It is a British nursery rhyme from the 19th century, but it is all wrong. Little boys are made of sneakers and fishing rods, laughter, the imagination, dinosaurs and worms, carousels, scooters and goldfish. Boys are made of pillow forts and story books; mud puddles and Sour Patch Kids.
When my grandson Finnian was born six years ago, I arrived in the hospital wearing a tie. My wife chuckled when I explained that I was meeting my grandson for the first time and I wanted to be formally dressed to welcome him, this ambassador from heaven.
Do you ever have the feeling of awe when something enters your life and you secretly ask yourself “How did I not know what this would be like?”
A new bathroom, the spring flowers, a new pair of shoes. These simple things make us pause for a moment and look back and say “I don’t even remember what the old bathroom looked like. I have quickly forgotten the cold winter air. My feet have never felt more comfortable.
I think that I have a good imagination, but I could never have imagined Finnian seven years ago. I am always stunned when I discover a place in my heart that I didn’t know existed. Who knew there was a vacant slot for Finnian waiting for his existence? When I held him in my arms for the first time, I looked at his closed eyes. I felt the softness of his skin and I didn’t know if I should have cried or laughed with joy. A grandson!
The other day, when I went to pick up Finn at kindergarten, the school door opened, and Finnian walked down the stairs with his camel-hump backpack, and when he saw me, he shouted: “Grandpa,” and he ran into my arms. I picked up the boy and we twirled around like a cotton-candy tornado, and then Finn’s teacher stepped out of the school and walked toward us.
Was Finn in trouble? Did he forget his homework? I thought. Instead, Ms. Jackie stood before us and said that if she ever had grandchildren, she hoped that someday she would be greeted as Finn greeted me.
Do a survey of grandparents and they will tell you the same thing: Grandchildren are magical beings.
Finnian likes to pretend that the roots of trees are the homes of trolls and elves. When we play rock, paper, scissors, he always wins because he always changes the rules and we laugh and laugh. When I read to Finn, he sits on my lap and I inhale the shampoo in his hair, and delight in his giggles when I turn a page.
I never really knew my only living grandfather. He was a general in the Belgian army. When he came to America for the summer during his retirement, I was afraid of him, so I kept a polite distance. He never played rock, paper, scissors with me.
Finnian and I climbed the Alps (the steps to his bedroom). We fixed the leaking pipes (hammering and screwing the legs under the dining room table with our plastic tools.) He named his fish “Blub-Blub.” He drew a birthday card for me on blue paper decorated with a stick figure of a man with a big nose and glasses. “That’s you, grandpa!” And we laughed some more.
The novelist Ernest Hemingway wrote in his famous little book The Old Man and the Sea, “Anyone can be a fisherman in May.”
I look at this photograph of Finnian fishing in May and I realize that six years ago Finn caught me on the hook of love without even trying. But he probably wasn’t impressed with my tie.
These words, often attributed to the influential advertising executive, author and columnist Lois Wyse, have the ring of truth: “Grandchildren are the dots that connect the lines from generation to generation.”
I am caught on Finn’s fishing line, and this is what little boys are made of.