I became a grampa Sunday morning.
Well, to tell you the True Truth, I've been considering myself the father of a child who has a child since I first saw the ultrasound picture and could tell how absolutely cool my grandson was:
But just yesterday morning (as James Taylor invades my brain), they let me KNOW you were [here]. Seems that the plans they made [got left behind].
It's true, the little goober came a few weeks early, but all is well and right and good and fine...except for a personal question of my own:
What do I want SkittleKid to call me when he starts talking in a few weeks?
(Yes, it will happen that soon. His mom, AngelFace, is An Educator and will settle for nothing less than a precocious prodigy...reading The Brothers Karamazov at the age of three.)
I've heard plenty of possibilities:
Grandfather - Way too stuffy for a wannabe hippie like me; makes me think of Shirley Temple pouting and crying in a snowstorm
Grandpa - Impossible to pronounce, which is probably what led to the invention of...
Granpa - which no one actually says; it always comes out...
Grampa - which is fine for what it is: the masculine form of Gramma; but I guess I want something less derivative
Gramps - This would be great if I chewed tobaccee, walked with a hitch in my gitalong, and was named Walter Brennan
Peepaw - Kind of cute in a it's-a-shame-Dewey-has-to-wear-Depends-at-such-a-young-age kind of way
I know it will depend on what SkittleKid's tongue can actually navigate, but I wouldn't mind Papa Dewey...except now that I say that out loud, it sort of sounds like you're instructing someone to quickly swallow some kind of illegal pill.
Oh well, whatever he ends up calling me, I'll love it because I love him. And that's the whole, complete, actual, factual, true truth.