There’s something strange about watching your dad become a grandad. It’s like seeing an old photograph develop in reverse — suddenly you notice details you never caught before.
I see him now, sitting on the floor with my kids, completely absorbed in their world. There’s Lego everywhere, Peppa Pig on in the background, and he’s wearing a plastic tiara like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
And every time, I think the same thing: who is this man?
Because I know him — or I thought I did. I’ve known him my whole life. But I don’t remember him quite like this. He was once stern and preoccupied, and now he’s patient and playful. My kids get a very different version of my Dad than I did, and for a while, I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. Why didn’t he behave like this with me?
But the more I thought about it, the more I realised what was going on. I hadn’t missed out on this version of my Dad, it’s just that it came as part of a package that included the worried version, the angry version, the tired version, and so on. My kids will never need to know him the way I did, and that’s natural, they are not his responsibility in the same way that I was. So yes, they will get him at his best, every time, and how wonderful for them and for him that that is the case.
Remembering The Bits That Stick
It’s not that my Dad was never fun when I was a kid. He was. He made us laugh, played games, pulled silly faces. I’ve got the photos to prove it — him with ice cream on his nose, or making a daft face at a donkey on some windswept day out.
But memory’s selective, isn’t it? You hold on to the big moments and the serious ones. You forget the small, daft, joyful bits because you’re too young to see how important they are.
Every now and then, one sneaks back — like the day he bought me a wrestling figure I’d been eyeing up. No occasion, no reason, just because he could tell how much I wanted it. I think about that a lot now I’m a dad myself.
However, I also remember the man who was too tired to play at the end of the day. The man who snapped when I got too loud, or cursed when I accidentally knocked something over. These things that seem minor to an adult are amplified to young eyes and ears.
The Grandad Edition
The funny thing is, my kids get the same man I did — just the Grandad edition. He still tells terrible jokes, still teases everyone, still has that mischievous glint. The difference is, they’ll never see the tired version. The one coming home after a long day. The one worrying about bills, or deadlines, or whether he was doing this whole parenting thing right.
They get the man who’s done all that already. He gets to enjoy the good bits now — the giggles, the biscuits, the cuddles before handing them back to us when the crying starts.
And honestly, I can’t begrudge him that. He’s earned it. That’s the thing I’ve come to realise: he hasn’t changed. He’s just finished his shift.
All the years of getting up early, working hard, fixing things, keeping the wheels turning — he’s done them. He’s served his time on the front line of family life. Now it’s my turn to do the heavy lifting while he clocks in for the fun part.
There’s something quite satisfying about that, really. Parenthood feels less like a solo act and more like a relay. He’s passed the baton on, but he’s still cheering from the sidelines. Now, I get to give him the experience of children all over again, but only the joyful parts, the easy parts.
Meeting My Father All Over Again
I thought I knew my dad inside out. But now that I’m a father myself, I realise I’m meeting him all over again.
He’s calmer, yes, but not softer — just freer. Watching him with my kids, I can see how much he loves being able to just be there. No lists, no jobs, no looming bedtime routines. Just stories, laughter, and that complete, uncomplicated affection that only grandchildren seem to unlock.
It’s like seeing the version of him I was too young to remember — not because it didn’t exist, but because back then I was too busy being a kid to notice. Or it registered in a different way.
Becoming a parent yourself rewires the way you see your own. You suddenly understand the exhaustion, the worry, the endless mental load. The version of my dad I remember — the one who was sometimes distracted or short-tempered — makes perfect sense now.
And that’s why watching him with my children isn’t bittersweet. It’s clarifying. It’s a reminder that he wasn’t withholding anything — he was just living it from a different end of the experience.
He gets to relax now because he’s already done the hard bit. I’m in the thick of it right now, but one day, if I’m lucky, I’ll get to do what he’s doing — turn up, spoil the grandkids, and leave the discipline to someone else.
The Circle Keeps Turning
Sometimes I’ll catch him watching me with my own kids — the same half-smile I have when I watch him. It’s this quiet recognition that we’re both on the same continuum. He’s been where I am. I’ll be where he is.
And in those moments, it all feels perfectly balanced. I’m not looking at two separate versions of my dad — the “then” and the “now.” I’m seeing the whole picture at last.
The dad who worried, worked, and sometimes snapped. The dad who laughed, played, and surprised me with that wrestling figure. The grandad who hands out biscuits and ignores bedtime rules. They’re all the same man.
He’s just done his shift. And when I see him down on the living room floor with my kids, I can’t help but feel proud that they get to know the version of him I never fully did — the one I was too young to appreciate, but lucky enough to grow up with all the same.