Still Foolin’ ’Em

by Billy Crystal

  The joy I had in raising my girls was one thing; seeing them raise their kids is another. Trying to remember what we did in certain situations is not possible. Jumping back into the world of the wee ones is not that easy. Being a grandfather to both sexes has taught me that girls are just different from boys. Not better or worse, mind you, but different. Granddads and grandsons are a great combination because they both think a fart is the funniest thing in the world, and the average grandfather produces more natural gas than the state of Oklahoma. If they’d allow fracking on lower intestines, the average grandpa could produce enough energy to light up Tulsa for a year.

  My friends who have granddaughters agree: Don’t take everything little girls say to you personally, except for “I love you.” They just say whatever they’re feeling. When your granddaughters are sweet and loving, there’s nothing like it, though it probably means they want you to take them to American Girl—which, of course, you will do.

  Today’s grandkids are intimidating because they are so smart. When we were younger, we looked at our grandparents like they were the Oracle of Delphi. They were fonts of wisdom: “Billy boy, every time God closes a door, he opens another—that’s when the Nazis can see who’s hiding in the house. Don’t trust anyone.” Nowadays, the kids are the brains and we’re the idiots. If fifty is the new forty, then three is the new fifteen. My grandson is three, and he has his own Twitter account. “Today I had Cheerios and skipped my nap. Then read Voltaire and shorted Facebook at $25 a share.” My seven-year-old granddaughter programmed my TiVo. My ten-year-old does the Sunday Times crossword puzzle. Seriously, each age is so different and special.

  When they’re born, you can’t help but stare at them, because that’s all you can do. It’s a thrill, of course, but they’re basically stones. For the first six months, your interactions are restricted to changing diapers and praying for an occasional smile. When I would get one, I’d be elated: “She knows me!” Then the baby would fart and I’d realize it was just gas. Once they start sitting up and recognizing you, it’s very obvious what is about to happen. Your kids are going to ask for the grandkids to sleep over at your place. Personally, I love it when my kids look more tired than we do. Sweet revenge. Still, we always say yes.

  The first sleepover is a delight for grandmothers and a challenge for grandfathers. The grandmothers can’t wait to watch the kids; we can’t wait to watch the game. But once they’re asleep in our house, life as we know it stops. We tiptoe around like we’re the Frank family and the Gestapo is downstairs. The baby monitor is in our room, and the unspoken rule is that when the kids go down, so do we. So at seven P.M., I’m in bed waiting for the sandman to come. I can’t watch TV, because the noise may wake up the kids; I can’t listen to music with my iPod earbuds, because then I can’t hear the monitor; and I can’t have sex, because that could wake up Janice.

  When they turn one, you can start talking to them. You’ll usually sound like a moron, but that won’t stop you. You’ll talk in that babyspeak that adults use on kids and people from other countries. I have spent entire weekends sounding like the strange guy who delivers for the florist. And once you’ve been doing it for forty-eight hours, it’s impossible to stop. One time we went to the movies after the kids had been with us for the weekend. I sounded a tad demented at the box office: “Can you pweeeze give me two old-people tickies for Inglourious Basterds, mister, pweeeeeze?”

  At two, they start talking back to you. They learn how to say “NO.” It’s the “Terrible Twos.” Forget the fact that you’re in the middle of the Shitty Sixties and that no one else on earth talks to you this way and let it roll off your back. Save up your angst for when they’re teenagers. Just change their diaper and cut their meat. It’s the same thing they’ll do for you when you hit the Hateful Eighties.

  Then they go to preschool and it seems that every three weeks or so there’s a show, which usually entails the kids standing together onstage and screaming a song or two. The moms are sighing and the grandmas crying and you’re thinking, I’m gonna be late for my meeting. Make sure you go to every one of these shows. Believe me, you don’t want one of your grandchildren asking you why you weren’t there.

  For me, the next stage has been exciting because my grandkids are starting to understand what I do. The first movie of mine they saw was Monsters, Inc., and for a while I was Grandpa Mike Wazowski. I spent a year and a half talking only like him. Then we’d be out together and someone would stop me for an autograph or to take a picture, and that confused them. But when some of my movies were aired on TV, they started to understand. We showed them The Princess Bride, and then I could only talk like Miracle Max for a few months. “Have fun storming the swing set” always got a big laugh. I did a sketch with Miley Cyrus in a special, and I brought them to meet her. “You have a cool grandpa,” she told them. That made me a big deal. They watched the Oscars the last time I hosted and saw billboards with my picture on them around L.A. When they came to the premiere of Parental Guidance, it was the first time they saw me in a movie as me, and of all things, I was playing a grandpa. People were taking pictures and everyone was making a big fuss. On the drive home, six-year-old Dylan asked Jenny, “Mommy, do people know Grandma is married to Billy Crystal?”

  One of the biggest regrets in my life is the fact that I’m not going to be around them forever to enjoy moments like that. Even if everything goes perfectly well, I’ll only get so far with them. I know the world they’ll be living in will be amazing—after all, just think of the changes the baby boomer generation has seen, from two men landing on the moon to two men on top of a wedding cake. My mind conjures up what the world will be like for them in, say, 2048. It will be a world where America is finally debt-free. And that will be because some of our richest billionaires will finally do the right thing and pay our debt off. They’ll just divvy up the check like it’s women at lunch.

  “Warren, I got defense; you paid for Social Security last time.”

  “Bill, you had health care and we didn’t, so take that.”

  “Who wants the CIA? It’s only twenty-eight billion.”

  “What tip do you leave on sixteen trillion? The service was so-so.”

  Thirty-five years from now, the world will be at peace mainly due to the leadership of our new pope, Sol the first. People everywhere will speak the same language, the language of the United States: Spanish. In 2048, the last person who still thought switching to the metric system was a good idea will die. We will make contact with aliens from a new solar system, and during their first visit, Donald Trump’s son will ask for their birth certificates. Most comforting, in 2048, the Yankees will win the Intergalactic World Series when seventy-eight-year-old Mariano Rivera records his five thousandth save.…

  But in my real world, I adore my grandchildren. And I’m getting better in my role every day, so I thought I’d share some rules, some do’s and don’ts, about being a successful grandparent.

  Learn from your own parenting mistakes. Don’t repeat with your grandkids what you did wrong with your own kids. It’s time to make all new mistakes. Grandpas sometimes get pushed aside when the baby is born. When the moms are nursing, there’s even less you can do. Guys, don’t stand back and let the women do all the work; get in there early and help out any way you can. Don’t hold the baby like it’s a football you’re running with. Cradle it gently but confidently. They hear your voice, they feel your tension, they get to know your smell. Try to be a part of it right from the start by improving your burping technique. Quick tip: Keep your head turned away from the baby, so it won’t smell your beer breath.

  As they get around six and older, girls start acting out a little. The shows they watch on TV should be monitored, as some of the “tween” shows can cause some strange behavior. When I was a kid, Annette Funicello of The Mickey Mouse Club was kind of sexy, but no one walked around dressed like her—except for my friend Todd, and that got him suspended from school for a week. Today, these tween stars are prov
ocative. Young girls want to be like the older girls, but their bodies don’t quite match what they’re trying to do. A six- or nine-year-old trying to bump and grind like a twenty-year-old can be challenging. Just smile and say, “Nice shoes.” It’s times like this when I feel I’m in the middle of a reality show: Oh, That Stupid Grandpa.

  Try not to overreact when they appear naked in front of you. I’m not sure little boys do this, as only my friends with granddaughters seem to be confronting this problem. For whatever reason, little girls will suddenly strip down, parade around, and flash everyone. You can’t get angry and say, “Put your clothes on now” or “What the hell are you doing?” You have to act like they have clothes on. You can say, “That’s not appropriate—we’re in a restaurant.” Getting naked spontaneously is perfectly normal, I’m told. Yeah, but if my uncle Louie did it, they’d put him in restraints.

  It’s also hard to remain calm when they start talking about penises and vaginas. Usually it’s at the dinner table and they’re laughing hysterically. I’d love to join in and be the cool “Lenny Bruce” grandpa—“Dig, took a bath and the water was too hot; I think I blanched the bishop”—but I resist the temptation. When my friend’s granddaughter was four, she saw her dad get out of bed naked, and she said, “Daddy, you slept with your penis on.” Kids love to talk about poop, penises, and vaginas—oh, and death. Yup, that’s a big one, too. You have to check with your kids first about what they tell their children about dying and death and heaven. It all has to be a consistent message. “Grandpa says the maggots eat us!!!” is not something you want your darlings to announce. This is a big one. Kids get scared about dying. You have to present it in the right tone. When I was a kid, my grandfather told me, “You get stiff, they dress you up and put you in a box. Then they bury you in the ground—pass the cookies.” That was three years in therapy right there. Kids need to know it isn’t the end. They need to feel that heaven is a wonderful, beautiful place where we’ll all be together again. On second thought, I guess we all do.

  Never threaten them with something you know you’re not going to do. Threats don’t work with little ones. Just look at the problems we have with the president of Iran. Don’t tell them you’re going to go away and never see them again. Don’t tell them you will take away their food if they don’t eat it. They know you won’t.

  Don’t tell them the truth about what you did when you were their age. So how do you handle it when they ask you the hard questions about drugs or sex or alcohol or what life was like in the 1960s? You do the same thing with your grandkids that you did with their parents: you lie your ass off.

  Never tell them how much money you’re leaving them in the will. That’s just an incentive for them to write the words DO NOT RESUSCITATE on your chest when you’re napping.

  Don’t let your fears and worries become theirs. Never forget that you’re sixty-five and they’re five. Just because we are a bunch of Purell-addicted, rubbing-alcohol-cleaning germaphobes afraid to shake hands doesn’t mean our grandkids should be. Pass down money, not phobias. Oh yeah: little ones like to eat their boogers. Just a warning. When you see them do it, don’t scream, “Eeech, don’t eat that!” If they see that it bothers you, they’ll do it again and again; then when you want to go out for lunch, they’ll say, “I’m not hungry, I ate.”

  Please don’t do what my grandma did to me when I had something on my face. Never take your napkin and put it in your mouth to get some saliva on it and then rub the “schmutz” off their cheek. Oh, the horror.

  Do fun things with them. Take them on one-on-one trips. Let them get to know you in a different way.

  Read to them. Show them the joy you can get from a great book. Act it out; make it so that storytime with Grandpa is a joy they will always remember. When they say they want Grandma to read to them instead, make it clear that you understand. Then quietly weep in the bathroom.

  Don’t think they’re your kids. Remember that the whole purpose of life is to raise your kids right so they can raise their kids right. When you see your kids raising your grandkids wrong, just remember these four letters: BTHO. Butt the hell out.

  Make a rule that no one can use an iPad or smartphone at the dinner table. Don’t be one of those families who don’t talk in restaurants because all the kids and parents are using a device of some kind. It’s a sad sight. No one is talking, no one is smiling, there is no interaction at all. The kids text Mom what they want to eat so she can e-mail the waiter. Giving your kid a smartphone is just a way to avoid being an interested parent. It’s another form of pacifier. We have become a country of Angry Birds–playing zombies who are addicted to this computer-phone-camera-butler in our hands. We walk with it, we drive with it, we take it to the john with us, we text, we Google, we watch movies on it, we—wait I got off the track here; where was I? Oh yes, being a good grandparent. All jokes aside, here’s the real deal: there are many moments now when I start thinking that I’m on dessert and the waiter is starting to put the bill together. Every year becomes more precious; every moment, every minute should be enjoyed and valued as they start to dwindle.

  Work has always brought me great satisfaction and joy. Those situations are fewer now, and there are more and more people telling me I’m not as important as I once was. The inevitable becomes clearer every day. Sometimes, like a sudden rainstorm, I get that scared, sad feeling that time is getting shorter. The dark part of my imagination overwhelms me, and I picture myself old and feeble, mumbling to my Bahamian aide, whom Janice can’t stand but I like ’cause she sneaks me gelato after my sponge bath. I can’t stop conjuring the saddest images my mind can muster, and I’m lost—and then I hear the footsteps running toward me and I hear the giggles, and they yell “Grandpa!” and suddenly they’re in my arms and I squeeze them and hold on to them for dear life, and that’s a very accurate statement. It is a dear life. One that I get to share with them while I watch them grow and help get them ready for what is to come. I am important; I am their star; I am their grandpa.

  Celebrate Your Birthdays

  Too many people, when they get older, try to ignore their birthdays. “I’m going to let this one go by,” I often hear from friends. Why pretend it didn’t happen? Embrace it. I love being on the other side of the dirt, and every day that I’m here, I am grateful. I believe birthdays are to be celebrated, especially when you turn sixty-five.

  Celebrate the fact that the ancient Mayans were wrong.

  Celebrate the fact that you have spent your life in a country where you can be anything you want to be (unless you are a gay illegal immigrant who wants to get married in Utah).

  Celebrate the fact that you’re alive and that statistically at least one of the people who bullied you in high school is now dead.

  Celebrate the fact that you are alive today because you got the proper postnatal nutrients when you were breast-fed from an attachment mom, up until you turned twenty-three.

  Celebrate the fact that you now have so many candles on your cake, Al Gore thinks you are the cause of global warming.

  And celebrate your mother, just like I celebrate mine.

  Sixty-five years ago, that sainted woman screamingly launched me into the world in a thirty-minute procedure she always likened to pooping a pumpkin.

  Honestly, my mom always made me feel special on my birthday, March 14. When I was a young boy, she used to wake me up at the exact time I was born: 7:36 A.M. As I grew older and moved out of the house, it became the phone call at 7:36 A.M. Even after I got married and had kids of my own, I always woke up looking forward to her call—it started the day off on the right foot. I put that tradition into City Slickers, with Jayne Meadows’s voice playing my mom on the other end of the line. Mom’s been gone since 2001, but come March 14, I still get up early and look at the alarm clock, and at 7:36, in my mind I hear the phone ring. Her call always ended with her saying, “Do something special.” I didn’t even mind that she called collect.

  The most special thing I ever did o
n my birthday was when my life’s dream came true: I got to play for the New York Yankees.

  In 2007, I was in Costa Rica for Christmas vacation and could feel my birthday looming. I was anxious about turning sixty—it felt like a huge number. Derek Jeter happened to be at our hotel. I’d known Derek since his rookie year, and we’d become friends. I told Derek I was going to be sixty and was a little freaked out about it. Jeter asked, “If you could do one thing to make yourself happy, what would it be? You should do something special.” Somewhere, my mom was smiling.

  * * *

  I knew my answer to Jeter’s question right away. When Joe Torre was the Yankees’ manager, he had let me work out with the team many times, even before World Series games. Joe and I were very close friends, and he not only knew I could handle myself on the field but thought my presence might even relax the guys. Infield practice was the most fun. I was still a good player, having been an outstanding (if I say so myself) high school second baseman and shortstop, and had played in leagues in New York and Los Angeles into my forties. My skills, though hardly professional, were solid. I still take batting practice regularly in a cage at home, and every morning my gym workout ends with a “catch.” Turning double plays with Jeter on the historic infield of old Yankee Stadium was an enormous thrill. I wanted to do it again—this time, for real.

  I came up with a plan where I would get one at bat in a spring training game. Whatever happens, happens, and I then announce my retirement and throw the team a party. Jeter loved the idea, and a few weeks before my sixtieth birthday, he and George Steinbrenner, Lonn Trost, Randy Levine, Brian Cashman, Bud Selig, and Major League Baseball gave me the greatest birthday gift ever: the Yankees would sign me to a one-day contract, and I would play against the Pittsburgh Pirates in a spring training game in Tampa. The game was on March 13, 2008, the day before my sixtieth birthday.