I’ve been called many things over the years: Son. Husband. Father. Police officer. Twat.
And a fair few other titles – some official, some considerably less flattering. But without question, the finest label ever pinned to my slightly frayed lapel is this: Grandad.
If you’re fortunate enough to have children, and then lucky enough for one of those children to produce a child of their own, brace yourself. Grandchildren are kryptonite. Not the sort that weakens you. The sort that melts you.
Having kids is hard work. Nobody handed me a manual. I had a job, bills to pay, responsibilities stacking up like traffic cones on the M25, and all the usual financial shite life gleefully lobs through your window.
Life is challenging enough when you’re simply trying to keep your own circus tent upright. Add children to the equation and suddenly you’re performing a high-wire act during a hurricane whilst being pelted with Lego.
It’s wonderful.
It’s exhausting.
It’s chaotic.
Then something rather remarkable happens. A few decades whizz past. The career that once consumed you loosens its grip. The financial anxiety that accompanied every pay packet settles down. The endless striving begins to fade into the background.
In my case, I’m fortunate. The alarm clock no longer owns me, I’m financially secure, and somewhere along the way I’ve accidentally stumbled across the meaning of life.
Not in a book. Not on a mountain. Not through deep philosophical reflection. I discovered it vicariously through my grandchildren. Five glorious little agents of delightful disruption.
Each one twiddles the dial of tomfoolery in a completely different direction. One specialises in mischief. Another in wonder. Another in questions so wonderfully bizarre that they would require a panel of scientists to answer (the other two are babes in arms). Collectively, they have dragged me back to a place I feared I’d misplaced forever: Childhood.
Not actual childhood, sadly. My knees remind me daily that those years have departed. No, they’ve returned me to the feeling of childhood. That ability to be completely absorbed by a puddle. To find magnificence in a stick. To laugh until breathing becomes optional. At just over sixty years old, my body might qualify as an adult, but my inner child still seems to hover permanently around the age of eight. Conveniently, there is actually some science behind this.
Psychologists often talk about the concept of the inner child, a collection of memories, emotions, creativity, and playful instincts that remain with us throughout life. Research into playfulness in adulthood suggests that maintaining access to these childlike qualities is associated with greater wellbeing, stronger social connections, resilience, and positive emotions. In other words, all those hours spent pretending a sofa is a pirate ship, or that a garden stick is Excalibur, aren’t signs of mental decline. They’re practically therapeutic.
My grandchildren don’t merely remind me of who I was. They remind me of who I still am beneath the previous layers of deadlines, responsibility, mortgages, expectations, and all the other adult nonsense that slowly accumulates over the years.
And the very best part? I don’t have to tell any of them off. That’s Mum and Dad’s department. I simply arrive, deploy enthusiasm, buy them ice cream, encourage questionable levels of excitement, and leave before the paperwork begins. It’s a magnificent arrangement.
So, there you have it. One of life’s greatest pieces of magic is seeing the world through eyes that haven’t yet been tarnished by the relentless seriousness of adulthood.
Children experience joy with reckless abandon. They find wonder where the rest of us see wallpaper. They haven’t yet learned that they’re supposed to be sensible. Thank heavens for that!
And if, like me, you’re fortunate enough to have these little urchins running around your life, I’d argue you’re already rich beyond your wildest dreams. Not rich in money. Rich in laughter. Rich in memories. Rich in wonder. Rich in love.
And, speaking personally, that’s a currency whose value only seems to increase with age.
Especially when you’re called Grandad.
© Ian Kirke 2026
@ iankirke.bsky.social
Title image by Andrew Robulack on Unsplash