You have to watch yourself around your grandchildren. I have a 3 year old grandson, Miles, and a 16 month old granddaughter, Georgia. At their age their little brains are like sponges, soaking up all that wisdom for which grandparents are noted.
Some time ago, we were discussing the upcoming one year birthday for Georgia, and I made the statement that I didn’t know what to get her for the occasion. Miles, having had two of his own birthdays and a couple of other parties under his belt, quickly made sense of the situation and solved Georgia’s birthday present problem.
“Cake!”, he yelled. You have to admire the potential of someone so young who has their priorities settled.
As in all families, we worked hard to come up with easily pronounced, cute grandparent names for both sides of Miles’ family. My wife didn’t want “mammaw”, or some other traditional grandmother names. She wisely decided on “Mimi”. It works well, and both kids can now pronounce her pseudonym.
I don’t care what the kids call me. I offered up my name, Bob, but my daughter said it did not give me respect, as if she ever did. So, I became Bob-Bob. It works, and both kids can say it.
The recent discovery is that Bob-Bob is the good granddad. Whenever Miles does not approve of my conduct, he truncates the cute little name to just plain, Bob. My daughter’s concern is coming to life, probably because whenever she speaks ill of me, she calls me Bob, clearly disrespecting her old man.
Last night while babysitting, Miles wanted a cheese snack. I found Kraft American cheese slices in the fridge, peeled one out of its wrapper, and dropped it on a plate in front of Miles. The problem is that Mimi had been feeding him a snack of vegetables and ranch dressing. The cheese slice plopped right in the middle of a puddle of dressing.
Instantly, Miles made known his disapproval of my service. He doesn’t like certain things, and one is the combination of cheese and ranch dressing. I can’t blame him, there.
“Bob threw it!”, he told Mimi. This told me three things. First, you can’t get away with anything less than the slavish service his mother gives him. Second, the little tyke is quick to voice his opinion of less than acceptable conduct. Third, I had been demoted to something less than grandparent du jour.
Thank God for two of them. Georga didn’t seem to have a problem with ranch dressing on American cheese. She ate every bite.
Afterwards, she raised her little arms for me to hold her. That just melts me like ice cream in July.