Once a week I take care of my grandson in Victoria. Six months ago, my attitude about that was, “I still have my life!” as the new identity of grandmother threatened to swamp my other emerging identities as writer, traveller, learner, keep fit senior, and friend. I was afraid of being taken over. I was edgy.

My attitude has changed. It’s now “whatever it takes!” and I gleefully get in the car every week for the trek down Island. Someday neuroscience will prove that a grandparent’s brain is different from that of a garden variety elder. For now, what is true for me is that my neurons crackle and my brain centers for joy glow at the mere sight of Cedar’s arms reaching out to me. But something else is happening. This baby is becoming my teacher. I’m learning how to see the world through his eyes. Join me on a walk with Cedar to see how this is so.

Mom straps her boy into his precision buggy and gives him his hundredth kiss of the day. Once on the sidewalk, I see Cedar squint. He’s not angry about the sun, just adjusting to it on his face. I know it is me that must shift my plan so that this baby can see his world. We keep the sun at our back. Up the hill in the morning, down when the sun is low in the afternoon. Cedar’s teaching me to let nature lead.

As a driver, I’ve never appreciated Victoria as hilly. It is. Skirting around hills on foot has taken us into some neighbourhoods I would never have seen otherwise. I listen for the sounds of machinery that used to be background white noise. Though he can barely sit up, this boy is enthralled by diggers and cranes and dump trucks. When I find the source of the noise, Cedar watches transfixed. I chat with the flag man or forewoman, who beam at Cedar as he melts their gruff exteriors. We all feel privileged to witness this child discovering a construction site for the very first time.

Victoria is accessible to us and our stroller. I’ve figured out which streets have curbs for wheelies and where there are benches for taking little rests to watch the world go by. Cedar loves watching traffic, the more the better. Pedestrian crossings are his special joy. He turns to look for the source of the mechanical chirp, listens to the trucks gearing down and even notices the street becoming quiet for a just a moment as we cross. I’ve learned what “pedestrian friendly” really means.

We walk on Island time. It is not the destination, but the journey that matters to us. Still, there are truly exciting places on our walks, seen through a child’s eyes. I learn to time them to arrive at the moments when Cedar is ready for a stretch. For example, we both love to watch day cares when the children are out playing. Little boys in groups seem to prefer scrambling games, wrestling, tag and bravado on the monkey bars. Little girls seem to have more fun in tight little groups, stirring the dirt in cooking games or telling each other how to behave. Cedar twists to observe the boy-play.

Shopping centers are not a place of conspicuous consumption when I’m with Cedar, but a Disney dream. It is all about perspective. There are fish and gerbils and parakeets in the pet store. Jumbo TVs are everywhere it seems. The decor stores are full of bright displays, easy for a baby to reach out and fondle. Our favourite mall caters to life in the slow lane. There are sofas all around, with men nursing their Tim Hortons and zoned out on hockey games, waiting while their wives browse. We settle into the deep leather chairs around the faux fireplace in the food court. Cedar draws smiles, and I learn why. He smiles first. There’s a lesson in making the first move!

I see a cosmopolitan city as I follow Cedar’s gaze. In the local park, for example, twenty something men kick footballs and shout in a language I do not know. A personal trainer puts a half dozen new moms in lycra through their paces, stretching hamstrings on park benches and reassuring their babies in their strollers while they do squats. An all-age group of runners gathers by the swings and suddenly takes off at a fast jog, waving as they pass. A city worker, who says his name is Bradley, tells me the story of the pink elephant that has been in the park for generations. “It was gray when I was a child”, he says. As he checks the equipment for wear, the wood chips for glass, and as he scrubs everything, he grins and says, “I love this job”. We both watch Cedar’s face as he experiences the baby swing for the first time. Cedar’s expression shifts from surprise to intent concentration to bliss. “Whee!”, I say, and mean it.

I was surprised at first when my grandson was named for a Coastal tree. But now, in this tot lot, I learn that times have changed. Kids aren’t called Dick and Jane any more. I’ve met Polly and Poppy, Sloan and Boaz, Gabby and Mahan and Finn. Some of these toddlers are pushed in the swings by dads in business suits, fiddling with their smart phones and checking their watches while they say, “Isn’t that fun?” I prefer the dads in the stay at home tribe, in their sweats and with their eco coffee cups, swapping with me the lore of male parenthood as they leisurely watch their kids. A distinguished looking African tells stories of being a refugee as he does the fast rock with his infant. A mom peeking through the eye slits of her Arab garb asks me to take her picture with her little girls. A daughter translates while I chat with her Chinese mother about being grandmothers. As the children mingle, we all open up to each other too.

Every walk is a learning experience. I’m learning about me. In just six months, my view of the world has shifted and I’ve opened wide to let it happen. I’m beginning to walk on the mild side.

What is the experience of other grandmothers, I wonder, as their focus begins to shift?

Janet Dunnet
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