Grandpa's influence not always good

Believe it or not, I am not an entirely positive influence around my grandchildren. 

My advice is not sound. 

My wisdom lacks. 

My examples are questionable.

Case in point. While visiting our daughter, son-in-law and our two grandchildren in Boise over the weekend, we decided to go for a bike ride to a nearby shop for dessert. Nothing wrong with that. 

But being restless as I am, while waiting for everyone to get ready, I challenged 11-year-old Hadley to a race around the block. She’s fast and won by cutting me off down the stretch, a good move I had to admire. 

Then, her brother, Holden, 8, said he wanted to race me. Sure, we had time. As Holden lined up in the street, I told him to wait a second, and then I bolted past while yelling, “Go!” 

Holden pedaled furiously to catch up. I moved toward the left side of the street while he cut to the right. As we neared the corner, I glanced over at Holden just in time to see his bike suddenly flipping in the air, sending him head over heels, and he crashed hard into the street. 

He screamed. 

I hopped off my bike and ran over. He was face down, his bike on top of him. His left foot was jammed into the spokes of the wheel. His right leg was through the bike frame. 

“You’re OK, Holden,” I said, trying to calm him down. “It’s all right.” 

Not knowing the extent of his injuries, I cautiously pulled his foot out of a shoe that was stuck tight in the spokes and then lifted the wheel from his leg so he could turn over. About then, I noticed blood dripping from his chin and saw a gash. I hoped it wasn’t bad. 

It seemed to take a while for everyone back at the house, about 30 yards away, to respond as they didn’t initially realize Holden was crying out in pain. 

His mom and dad came running, and dad picked him up and carried him home. I watched as our other daughter picked up Holden’s bike, the front brakes completely broken and snapped off. 

His parents drove off a few minutes later, headed to an emergency room. 

I felt guilty as we waited word on his condition. 

“I wasn’t anywhere near him when he crashed,” I insisted to my wife. “I was on the other side of the street.” 

As far as I can tell, what happened was, Holden was pedaling so fast that his foot slipped into the spokes and crunched into the fork, causing the bike to screech to a stop, sending him over the handlebars. 

No one was blaming me, but I was the one racing him.

A few hours later, Holden returned home with his parents. It took six stitches to close the gash on his chin. His left foot and leg were wrapped and in a brace, but he was smiling. The stitches didn’t even hurt, he said. Nothing to it. 

But there was a little more. 

“I have a broken foot,” he proudly announced as he walked around. 

The next morning, chin bandaged, foot wrapped, he went to school. 

The X-rays were inconclusive as to whether the foot was broken, and no one at the emergency room could read them so Holden’s parents are waiting for a specialist to take a look. Meantime, Holden has a protective boot on his foot. While he said it’s a little sore, he seems OK. 

Still, his parents are probably questioning the influence of grandpa. 

When I visit, I joke about creating cigarettes, beer and coffee for children. The target audience will be the 6-10 age group. 

“I’ll make millions,” I like to say. 

Hadley and Holden just shake their heads. They know this is a terrible idea. 

“Grandpa,” they say.  

Sometimes, when they're talking about school, I’ll say, “Tell your teacher, ‘My grandpa said I don’t have to listen to you.'"

At that, Hadley and Holden laugh. They know, too, this is silly.

They have learned to question what I tell them because I'm usually speaking nonsense.

My daughter understands how this works.

She told me that Holden explained to the nurses that his grandpa had kicked his bike when they were racing, and that’s why he crashed. He told them it was his grandpa's fault.

“What? I wasn’t even close to him,” I protested, now feeling very sheepish. “I never kicked his bike. It wasn't me. I didn't do it."

My daughter smiled. 

“Just kidding.” 

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Bill Buley is assistant managing editor of The Press. He can be reached at bbuley@cdapress.com.