I was in Austin to meet the new boy baby and provide emotional assistance and technical backup to the new parents. In between Derby duty (that’s his name…Derby), making up nonsense lullabies, studying the breast pump manual and stomping on Texas-sized cockroaches, I was reading Ernest Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises for our book club.

Derby is good and strong and lean and can drink long into the night and next day. But he won’t have to grow up to be a Hemingway he-man. And isn’t he a lucky fellow?

His tiny clothes are covered with trucks and tigers but he can also wear polka dots with panache. His favorite pacifier is pink. He’s a beautiful boy whose looks change daily, but I’m pretty sure he has my ex-husband’s nose.

He will likely one day read Hemingway because he comes from a family of readers.  The Hemingway stories may inspire him to go to Paris and sit in cafes and write at least one simple declarative sentence. Or he may read Hemingway and think, “Huh, what an interesting anthropological peek into the evolution of the American male.” Maybe he’ll ask his grandfathers, “Did you ever want to shoot a water buffalo to prove you had the stuff?”

Hemingway’s Lost Generation was a messed up macho one, scarred by war, distrusting, always wanting to pick a fight. Worried about losing face, being called a coward. Too tough to show feelings.  Wary and resentful of women.

I always liked the places in his stories a lot more than the people. In re-reading Hemingway I’m still unclear how, for being so worried about the rent, they still managed to spend all winter skiing.

Our new baby boy was born into a world where fathers sleep in the labor room and carry their own diaper bags. Who are more into swaddling than swagger. And while some may still wish for a return to the days when the measure of a man is the size of his gun collection, today’s boys get to grow up with more than macho to choose from.

Hemingway helped create the man of his times. The man’s man – aggressive, tough,   proud, stoic, pugnacious, domineering, loutish even. The woman of the times, of course, had her own rigorous standards. We’ve been working on these stereotypes since Derby’s grandmother became a feminist and Derby’s mother was a little girl with a toolbox and pink overalls. And we all sang It’s All Right to Cry and William Has a Doll.

We imagined this daughter having a girl baby. She did, too, although for a long time she said she didn’t want to have children. The first surprise was she was pregnant. The second was she was having a boy.

I knew she had been thinking girl and started a campaign to convince her that mothers and sons make great combos. I gave her examples of all the wonderful women I know whose boys were their sweet little buddies. And once they got past the teenage years, which are just as painful with daughters as sons (as she well knows) they grew up to be thoughtful adults who remember their mothers’ birthdays and bring home cool women to become daughters.

She said I could lay off the propaganda. She had already decided it would be fun to have a boy.

Derby blasted into life as storm clouds gathered over Austin, which caused the sky to rumble and flash and finally deliver rain to Texas after months of drought. Then came a full moon and cool breezes and those who lived in Derby’s house could finally turn off the air conditioner and listen to the night.

And it was right and it was fine and this baby didn’t have to prove another darn thing.

It can be a long stretch of time between having your own babies and grandbabies, which is why it’s a good idea to get a dog. Puppies are not only a reminder of how it is to have a vulnerable creature entirely dependent on you, they reintroduce you to sleep deprivation, mushy baby talk and crawling around on the floor on your hands and knees.

This is why I say everything I know about grandbabies I learned from my dog. They have so much in common in their formative stages. They learn fast but take orders only when they feel like it. They insist you be agile, mindful and forgiving, while turning you into willing servants and causing you to fall silly in love.

My husband and I have one dog in the house and two young grandchildren who live nearby. A three and a half year old and a five month old. The dog came first and like all new dog owners we were stunned at how freely we gave over our house, our social schedule and, yes, even our bed to the dog.

She is six years old but I still call her “puppy.” I also call the grandchildren “puppy.” It’s my favorite endearment.

We spoiled the dog. She eats at will, gets walked three times a day even in the rain and is allowed on the furniture. She’s a loveable inconvenience, demanding and often underfoot. So, it was not a big adjustment bringing grandbabies into our house which we do one day a week.

When the dog was tiny we kept elaborate notes on what she ate, when she slept, how much and where she eliminated. We did the same with the first grandbaby and now with her little brother. We are veteran poop reporters.

Everything I know about grandbabies I learned from my dog.

There are major differences, of course, between the two. Babies need to be carried about which makes them harder on your back. You can’t ignore a crying baby like you can a barking dog. On the other hand, a baby outgrows her crying when she starts talking. A dog never stops barking, at least not this one.

Dogs are more mobile. You open the car door and the dog jumps in and that’s it. Getting a child in a car seat requires a manual, two grandparents and a lot of practice. Going for a walk with a dog requires a mere leash and a plastic bag. With a baby, you have to figure out which button pops open the stroller and which straps go under his arms and which ones around his little legs and then what to pull to cinch it all tight. By which time the baby is howling and so is the dog.

Dogs and little kids do make great accessories. You can take them around town and people will smile and sometimes stop to talk. People get to know you by your little companions. But greet them on the street minus your dog or grandbaby and they act like “who, you?”

We made the house dog-proof before we made it baby-proof but it was kind of the same thing. The dog had a playpen, a special bed, gates to keep her from falling off the deck and her own shampoo, the no-more-tears kind. Same with the kids.

Both creatures are adoring and make you feel essential. But they’re fickle and will crawl into just about any lap. Plus they drool. For sure, the house would be a lot quieter and neater without them. But, pretty empty, too.