By now, some of you may have heard that I recently became a grandfather. I’ll have you know, this was no easy task. I’m sure all those doctors and nurses felt they had a lot to do with the whole effort. As far as I’m concerned, they really did little more than stand there while the rest of us did all the work. (I will throw a shout out here to my daughter, who apparently experienced some discomfort and inconvenience over the nine months of pregnancy and 10 hours of labor she contributed to the process.)
Still, I think if we’re all relatively honest with ourselves, we will each, independently, come to the conclusion that one of us actually bore a more significant load in this whole “grandson” event.
Obviously I didn’t take this responsibility lightly. Grandfathers the world over are known for their words of wisdom and steady hand of guidance.
That’s a lot of pressure for someone who continues to make monumentally stupid decisions and bounces chainsaws off their kneecaps. (It’s that whole “steady hand of guidance” thing.)
Still, considering that not only was this my first venture into grandparenthood, I really think I should get a few extra points for transitioning smoothly from being falsely informed for the past 8.237 months that I would be having a granddaughter.
I don’t always adjust well to sudden changes, however I think my adaptation from the world of pink and yellow to that of blue and green went pretty smoothly.
Perhaps I’ve mentioned before that all three of my grandfathers worked for the U.S. Postal service. Perhaps, also, you have noticed that I am not walking around town carrying a mailbag and whistling little mailman tunes as I deliver your mail.
Or, perhaps – as odd as it may sound – your life doesn’t actually revolve around me and the goings-on in my life. Maybe you see me walking around town everyday and have absolutely no clue who I am. (I’m really not sure whether I want to believe that, or just continue to delude myself into thinking that all those odd looks people give me at Petro really have nothing to do with my revelations about back hair and rogue bunnies that stalk me daily. (Perhaps that’s one of those “abnormal” thoughts I’m really only supposed to be sharing with my therapist.)
Perhaps I’m using the word “perhaps” way too much.
As I embarked on my journey into “the way of the grandfather,” I was reminded of the times I shared with my three grandpas. Yes, I realize not everyone has three grandpas, but step-grandpas weren’t really discussed on Sesame Street and the Electric Company in those days. Back then, they pretty much stuck to numbers and letters, and didn’t worry so much about the quagmires of political correctness.
So, imagine my surprise when I completed the Facebook quiz, “Which Old School Obscure Sesame Street character are you?”
My result? Roosevelt Franklin.
Maybe you don’t remember him, but according to Facebook, I am “hip, know where it’s at and outta sight!” I love to count and recite the alphabet… as long as I can scat while doing it. Apparently, I was also too cool for Sesame Street, and I was dropped from the show for being a politically incorrect black stereotype.
Sure, Oscar was grouchy and yes, he lived in a trash can. You got a problem with that? And so what if the Cookie Monster wanted to consume mass quantities of snickerdoodles and chocolate chip cookies? I don’t remember seeing a Mrs. Cookie Monster anywhere in the picture, so it’s not like the macaroon-munching-muppet had to be too concerned about his figure.
I would tell you that things like that wouldn’t fly in my “‘hood,” but I actually grew up in the suburbs of West Texas and Oklahoma. And while I’d like to think that I’m up on all the “urban-speak,” I’m pretty sure “hood” takes on a whole different meaning down in some of them-there confederate areas.
And, while I’m digressing, can someone please explain to me how all this grandparent naming system came into play.
No one told me there would be forms to fill out. Why do I have to choose between grandpa or gramps or PawPaw? Is a 4-week-old really gonna care at this point?
I’m not really sure I can handle all this grampa pressure and responsibility now. I had no idea how much it took. And if I remember correctly, Paw Paw Bill used to let me sit on his lap and hold the steering wheel while he drove his 1967 Bonneville. The man had me driving with my knees by the time I was 4.
Maybe I’m not ready for all this after all.
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