I learned a couple weeks ago that, assuming everything goes smoothly, I will be a, ahem, grandfather. Well, let me rephrase that. My daughter will be having a baby in October and I will be its, uhm, well…
I have never prepared for this possibility, largely because I thought the day would never come. I have always believed that my daughter had been pretty traumatized being only about eight feet from the birth canal of my ex when her brother came into this world. I can still see her 17 year old eyes, wide as saucers as we made origami of my ex so Parker could come popping out.
I thought that had cured her of the idea of ever having sex. I really think we should put all teenage or even pre-teenage girls in that same front row seat. I’m sure the teen birth rate would dip, if not the number of teens having sex.
I was never really sure my daughter had ever even consummated her relationship with her wonderful husband. Then, at my mother’s house, she pulled out an envelope of photos. She handed them to me. They were black and white and somewhat blurry. But I knew the image in a moment. I had seen it twice before. At least this one I wouldn’t be paying for for many years to come.
I know I had a look of absolute shock on my face. First, the photos were irrefutable proof that my daughter was no longer a virgin. Fair enough. I could handle that one. But the thought of being a gran… uhm, granp… geez, I can’t even get that word out.
It’s not that I’m not excited. I’m half tempted to create a website for the little varmint, like I did Parker. But my daughter would have nothing to do with that project, so I doubt she’d be any more willing to participate in one dedicated to her own daughter or son.
I even got mildly enthusiastic about it on the way to work yesterday. It suddenly dawned on me that I will live on a bit longer in this world, as some of my DNA will now be part of the new kidlet, God help her or him.
That’s pretty cool. A couple more dots to connect on ancestry.com so someday the little moppet will know where he or she comes from, at least from my part of the family.
The part I am hung up on is the title. I am not and can not be a gran… uhm, gra… uhm, geez, I’m losing ground here.
When I was a kid, my grandpa was a chain smoking bald guy who snored like a lawnmower that would almost start, but never quiet, and who spoke German to everyone around him, even though none of us spoke the language. He smelled of Old Spice and well, when I was a kid I thought of mold, too. I suppose now he really smells of mold, as he’s been dead now for some 40 years.
And that’s the problem right there. Grandpas are old. They are usually just this side of dead, waiting to pass on to the other side. I am far too young, at least in my mind, to be gran… grand… screw it… material.
Some would argue that 54 is a good age for such an “honor.” I suppose that was true, when people lived to be 61. A couple good years of bouncing a grand-something on your knee, then you only exist in yellowing photos of the family and everyone fondly remembering you because you never could remember anyone’s name and you talked endlessly about the good old days.
My good old days haven’t even arrived yet. They are still good new days. I’m not overly nostalgic. Perhaps it’s because I never walked five miles to and from school, uphill both ways. I never drove a car with fins on it. I barely remember when mass was said in Latin. And I grew up in Renton, which though considered the sticks by some, hardly has the romance of being from Russia or even Aberdeen, South Dakota.
Now, I know I have no choice in the matter. Assuming everything does progress normally, I will find myself at Valley Medical Center sometime in the fall, pointing proudly at some wrinkled little creature and handing out bubble gum cigars. I will already have found at least one piratical onesie, much to the chagrin of my daughter.
Inevitably, the kid will get old enough to call me by name. This is my moment of dread. I will not be called grand…uh, gran… you know! I refuse.
As many of you know, I have been giving some thought to this. I was originally going to have the kid call me “Mr. Zerr,” or “Zerr, Sir.” Jan was easy. I decided kidlet should call her Janma.
I think Robb is just a little too formal. If I would have called a grown up by their first name when I was a kid, I would have been slapped silly right in front of everyone. I never even call my teachers by their first name today, isn’t that right Mr. Gleason?
Finally, of course, I settled on “Captain.” I’ve been called that by my crew forever. I’ve earned those stripes, serving as babysitter on countless occasions. I could even live with “CapPa.” But gran…geez… grand… OK I give up. I will never be able to be called that name, at least without running someone through with a sword.
Leave the G name for others who seem to become enraptured with the old fart label. I will eventually and gracefully accept the title… when I’m grandpa age. Yeah, like that day is ever going to come.
In the Emerald City, wondering if a small sword is an appropriate shower gift,
– Robb