The eagle has landed…

A TODDLER is about the same size as a lamb. Maybe not a newborn lamb, but one that’s cute and cuddly.

And if a wedge-tailed eagle can carry off a lamb then why not a toddler? Not so woolly, I grant you, but still reasonably easy to hang to.

These are the kind of thoughts that occupy a grandfather’s mind. I can vouch for it. Especially when you – and the toddler – live in eagle country.

And I have seven grandchildren. I’m not sleeping at nights.

True, four of them are too big for an eagle and one of those could put a polar bear to flight, but the others are… well, eagle bait!

I even dreamt that one was eaten by the pig, and the nearest pig is laying in slices in a butcher’s shop in Thuringowa!

What happened to me? I’ve become a grandwimp!

It wasn’t like this when I was a dad! I have five children; two broke limbs, one broke his jaw (or had it broken for him); they travelled round the world, fell off bicycles and were brought home by the police; and the only signs of stress I ever showed was a slow change in hair colour from black to grey.

Now I look like a tortured spirit. Hollow-eyed, sunken-cheeked; imagining the worst at every turn.

When my sons wandered too close to a cliff edge I stood at a distance, hands in pockets, and yelled: “Good grief, don’t go so close. Someone else will have to clean up the mess!”

Now my granddaughter meanders near a set of four steps (with grass at the bottom) and it’s: “Oh my God, Lara… Lara stop her. Quick! She’ll break her neck! No – don’t make any sudden moves… she’ll panic. Nobody move! Someone stop her …” by which time everyone has wandered off for a cup of tea.

I don’t even trust their parents. My daughter lifts her daughter off the ground and hurls her skyward, where she screams and giggles, and she catches her on the way down.

What of she didn’t catch her? What if she hit the floor? What if she choked on an apple; what if they run into the road; what if a freak wave comes in and sweeps them off the beach?

These are all the things my parents said to me about my kids, and it didn’t make any difference. I threw them in the air, I fed them chunks of apple, I let them pedal their trikes on the footpath. I even tried feeding one to a wedge-tailed eagle, but it wasn’t interested.

Is it normal? Does something hormonal (like losing your hormones) happen, so we go into alarm overdrive with our grandchildren, but not with our children? Is it because our grandchildren are being raised by … well, kids! Even if they are approaching 40 years old!

Anyway, the toddler is indoors now, safe from wedge-tailed eagles, pythons, and goblins. I rang ahead to check.

Of course, indoors has its own problems: the stairs, the cutlery, the electrical wiring, the shelving (I told them to screw it to the wall; you know how toddlers like to climb), the dog and the fire.

So I rang ahead again.

“Dad, I promise you, she’s not on the stairs, she’s not in the cutlery, she’s not chewing the wiring or the dog, because I’m having trouble keeping her out of the Ratsak …
“Dad … ? Dad … ?  Dad …!”