E-Paper
Sign In
How Generation Alpha is caught between parenting and grandparenting
Why we all have to relearn the etiquette of affection to take care of our grandchildren
- PUBLISHED: Thu 19 Feb 2026, 10:26 PM
“Good boy, great job!” I exclaimed as the little fellow manoeuvred his three-wheeled cycle through the familiar clutter of the living room. It was a spontaneous cheer — but it also carried my quiet pride. For the first time, I got to see him truly engaging the pedals, no longer content to be pushed and pulled.
“Don’t ever do that.”
Recommended For You
The correction was directed at me — the grandfather. His mother’s tone was controlled, almost clinical, but firm.
I absorbed the rebuke with the diplomacy age confers. It was almost midnight and not the right time for an argument, especially when you had just got up after nine hours of work from home. Moreover, it was time to take him to the bed.
“Dad, we shouldn’t be showering kids with complements for everything they do.”
I said OK; nothing more nothing less and not bothering to know any medical explanation to justify herself. But I remembered a reel she had shared two days ago which I had not bothered to watch.
The boy, blissfully unaware of the ideological exchange hovering above him, turned from his saddle and offered me a quick smile — innocent, uncalculated, free of theory. It was a thank-you gesture.
Children, my doctor-daughter believes, or the aforesaid reel proclaims, must not be conditioned to expect applause for every modest accomplishment. Too much praise, she fears, teaches them to demand it — to assume that even the smallest effort merits celebration. And when applause becomes routine, the incentive to attempt something larger quietly diminishes.
In our time, encouragement was scattered generously, like confetti at a temple festival. Now it is dispensed sparingly, like a prescription for controlled medication.
“Dad, did you watch the reel I had sent about child focus? It’s scientific. When a child is in deep play and you pass comments like, ‘wow, that’s so creative’, they would stop and look up, mostly abandon the scene and follow you to the kitchen or wherever. You were trying to support, but their nervous system heard something else.”
“Dad, it’s proven in labs that whenever a parent spoke or praised, the child’s brain signal stopped, focus broke, and the kid scanned for more. So, when your child is focused, you should ideally hold back, stay near, and say nothing. Or maybe just smile and nod so the child would return inward,” she continued.
There I stood poised between instinct and instruction — a grandfather relearning the etiquette of affection past midnight. The exchange carried me back to the 1990s — to a time when the roles were reversed, and I was the parent, my daughter the little one. The mise-en-scène felt familiar: the sturdy reassurance of brick-and-mortar stores across the UAE, many of them still holding their ground even as online shopping edged towards 15 per cent by 2024–25.
In those days, I never subjected my daughter’s nappies to forensic scrutiny. We would troop into BHS at BurJuman or Babyshop in Karama’s Sana Building and simply pick up what was available — confident, uncomplicated, and unburdened by specification sheets.
“That’s not quite a healthy way, Dad,” she now explains, with the gentle superiority of a new generation parent. “There are at least half-a-dozen things you ought to know when buying diapers — the quality of the tabs, the softness of the material, the absorbent core, the wetness indicator, the navel recess, and so on. We the new mothers understand these details because we read extensively during our gestation period.”
Why didn’t I google parenting before my daughter was born, even though I had a computer and Internet access as far back as 1990? Perhaps because for my wife and me, parenting was never an acquired skill. It was something absorbed, almost by osmosis.
I grew up in a fishing village where life unfolded in the open — unselfconscious and communal. At any given time, there would be half-a-dozen pregnancies in our neighbourhood. I knew what expectant mothers ate before and after delivery. I had watched them nurse their newborns, rock them to sleep, and soothe them through tears. I was there when babies were bathed in the backyard, their tiny heads dusted with Ayurvedic powder to ward off the chill.
Disposable nappies were unheard of. Instead, there was soft, multipurpose white cloth — washed, sun-dried, folded, and reused for months. Care was not commodified; it was lived.
And just as the white smoke rising from the copper chimney of the Sistine Chapel signals the election of a new pope, the aroma of a medicinal fenugreek dish wafting through the coconut groves announced the arrival of a new mother in the neighbourhood. I knew breastfeeding mothers once upon a time took fenugreek preparations to increase their breast milk supply.
So, parenting, for us, was not theory. It was memory of a community practice. To lecture me on parenting would be like teaching a priest how to preach. Period.
“Dad, are you home? Can I leave Shutti with you for a couple of hours? I have clinic.” Vava called the other day.
“Bring my boy,” I said, already smiling.
“But what will you give him for lunch?”
“Anything that he wants.”
“That’s exactly the problem, Dad. We don’t give him more than one or two servings of anything with processed or refined sugar. He eats cooked meals 99 per cent of the time. Colourful vegetables with gluten-free pasta are fine.”
“And for evening tea?”
“Absolutely no chocolates. His snacks are mostly fruits — but no high-sugar produce, please. No cookies too. Anyway, he isn’t a biscuit boy.”
“No issues. I’ll manage.”
I almost reminded her how she once returned from kindergarten and shamelessly demanded breast milk before changing the uniform. But I let that memory rest.
“But dad, food isn’t my main worry. Amma lets him watch TV for hours. I don’t mind screen time in moderation, but strictly no handphones. They harm mental and emotional health, and reduce attention span.”
Oh boy. Back in our village days, children gathered like pilgrims in a neighbour’s house to catch a glimpse of black-and-white cartoons. Even my own daughter and son grew up watching Tom and Jerry, The Jungle Book, and Home Alone on repeat well into their college years. Today, the entire universe lives inside a mobile phone. Open YouTube and hundreds of children’s shows spill out instantly.
“If Amma lets him watch TV, please play calmer shows — Juicebox Jukebox, Trash Truck, Tumble Leaf, Hey Bear… less stimulating ones. The Tom and Jerry era is long over, dad.”
Unfortunately, on that day — thanks to his grandmother’s indulgent heart — Shutti watched far more than his parents would have allowed. And when they came to pick him up, he threw theatrical tantrums.
The next morning, Vava’s message arrived. “We need a serious conversation about how you and Amma deal with my son in our absence.”
“Yesterday’s behaviour was shocking. We can’t allow these episodes every time we visit.”
“We don’t appreciate him not wanting to leave your house. That’s a sign you’re giving him whatever he asks for and letting him watch TV endlessly.”
I stayed mostly silent and let her speak.
“Grandparents may show affection through leniency, but we can’t allow behavioural issues caused by round-the-clock pampering — even things like peanut butter and oranges always being available. You know one orange has six spoonfuls of sugar.”
“He’s clearly understood that whatever he doesn’t get at home is freely available at your place. What he shows you is preference — more than affection. I’m not saying he doesn’t love you.”
“We know his pulse. We are his primary caretakers. Strict ground rules need to be set now onwards— for both child and grandparents. No compromises.”
Then came the line that lingered: “It takes a village to raise a child. Shutti’s village is Sarath and me, so please respect our way of parenting.”
“And yeah, if you are taking him out, please don’t go to a mall. Take him to a park. Let him run around barefoot. Let him feel the earth, soil his feet, breathe in the scent of the mud.”
“Guess who’s taking. You were a certified mall creature as a child.” I chuckled.
“Not anymore, Dad. We millennials and Gen Z don’t hang around in malls. Malls are for aunties and uncles. We seek out farms, the countryside, the hills, the valleys, the beaches…”
She wasn’t firing from the hip. She was calm, precise — like a pigeon shooter with a full magazine. I wasn’t wounded either. I wore a ballistic vest stitched out of love — enduring, unconditional, and unleaded.
The next morning, the little hero arrived again — sleeves rolled up, hands tucked into his pockets.
“Appoppa (grandpa), where’s the black TV remote?”
“TV isn’t working today, baby,” I lied, gently steering him towards the reading corner.
He didn’t protest. Instead, he fetched his magnetic slate and pen and climbed beside me. “Appoppa, draw shapes.”
“Okay, command me.”
“Draw a square. Circle. Triangle. Star. Semi-circle. Oval…”
“Done, Shutti.”
He nestled closer, warm and unquestioning. Then came the ambush.
“Now draw a decagon… hmm… a parallelogram… a tetrahedron.”
“Decagon? Parallelogram? Tetrahedron?” I sweated. “What on earth are they?
“Appoppa, ask Google.” He offered a solution from his big little world.
I grappled with the phone, squinting at the small letters and wrestling with the spelling of tetrahedron.
Then, with a tiny shade of seriousness on his face, the three-year-old looked up at me. “Appoppa, are you happy?”
He paused, trying to recall a line from a kiddie show. “Are you sad?”
The question hovered between us — innocent, direct, yet devastating.
“I’m not sure, Shutti? Shall I ask Google?” I said softly, eyes swelling up with tears of joy. When was the last time someone asked me if I was happy? Or sad?
The years have taken many things from me. Now they seem to be nibbling at my conscience.
Yet here he was, small and luminous, asking the only question that truly mattered, unwittingly.
And for a moment, I did not need Google at all.
The writer is executive editor, Khaleej Times.
