The Last Kevin Courtney

By Kevin Courtney

News flash: America is in the midst of a grandchildren explosion. I know because my age peers are beginning to have them.

According to reports, a grandchild is cuter, sweeter, more delightful than even a fluffy lap dog. This is hard to believe, but this is what they say.

I look at their grandkid photos and hear their baby-cooed-at-me stories without blanching. My Mom raised me to be polite.

But really, I don’t get it. They might as well be describing a baby animal brought home from the zoo.

Even my sister in Nashville is in the throes of early grandmotherdom. Grandbaby news lights up her e-mails.

I’ve wanted to ask Dorothy to explain the magic, but I’ve hesitated. How do I ask the question without revealing an apparent deficiency at the core of my humanity?

The last time I had a baby in my house, under my care, was more than a quarter century ago. That baby was my son Dennis, now 28. My only previous baby experience was Jenny, now 32.

I have minimal memories of baby Jenny and baby Dennis. I faintly recall diaper changing, strapping lumps of dead weight into car seats and catching food dribble with a spoon. I’m sure there was a glow associated with caring for these miracles of life, but it faded a long time ago.

According to the word on the street, having a grandchild is in many ways better than having your own. You’re around for the good times, leaving the major headaches to the parents.

The notion of grandchildren popped into my consciousness after attending a recent rash of weddings. Those brides in white dresses, those grooms in tuxes had me thinking of the babies to come. And surely they will come, like pumpkins in autumn.

This is a good thing, no doubt. Life marches on, the perpetuation of the species and all that.

But it raised the question: If my friends may soon become grandparents, what about my prospects?

I ask not because I want to become a grandfather. Haven’t I been clear about that? I’m just curious.

My kids are well into their child-bearing years, but like so many of their generation they’re not marrying, they’re not multiplying. Cheryl has two adult children of her own. Same situation.

These young adults are focused on careers, computers, movies, ethnic food, you name it. I hear no yearning for the   pitter-patter of little feet.

Cheryl says not to worry. We’ll have grandchildren. It’s still early. Didn’t I wait until I was 30 to have Jenny? Cheryl herself was in her mid-20s before beginning a family.

All true. But these are different times. Our adult children live in a post-modern, economically depressed, maturity-delayed, media-saturated cyber world. In today’s culture, babies are not one of the killer apps.

I’m cool with that. Then again, if my children don’t have children, what about my genes?

My wonderful, wonderful genes. The genes that make me me. The genes that if spread throughout humanity would uplift the species in untold ways.

Am I overreacting? Don’t I have Courtney cousins and Courtney siblings? If Jenny and Dennis don’t have children, won’t Courtneyness live on in relatives’ children and grandchildren?

Yes, a tepid form of Courtneyness would live on. But the more rarefied Kevin Courtney strain would disappear.

I’m sorry. I can’t contemplate the genetic extinction of me with a happy face.

What to do? Do I burden Jenny and Dennis with my concern for posterity? Of course not. As an enlightened father, I want them to live their lives as they see best. Other than mailing them this column, mums the word.

Go ahead, be work-obsessed, hedonistic young adults. If you don’t want to come to your senses and have a grandkid for the Gipper, it’s perfectly OK.

Kevin can be reached at 256-2217 or Napa Valley Register,  P.O. Box 150, Napa 94559 or kcourtney@napanews.com

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