Call me “Papa!”
Two recent thoughts, upon the news my son and his wife delivered their baby.
Heard first through an early morning voice mail, then called Jeff. He was in the parking lot of the hospital, after having devoured his post-birth Dad-breakfast. He answered the phone and calmly described the adventure—all the way to the c-section and nine weeks too-early birth.
“Everything is fine Dad. Gavin has tubes, but is perfect and will come home by his regular due date. I’m headed to see my wife and hope to see him soon. Love you.”
Suddenly it dawned…my 22-year-old son has exited the world of hanging out and waiting to go to the park. He no longer trolls the toy store with his brother, only to be sent outside to throw a sales pitch at me—“Dad, we really need this Mario video game. You could play it with us.”
Its been some time since Jeff has been a passenger in my vehicle—where he would start a conversation about strawberry ice cream just two blocks from Baskin Robbins. I barely remember the last time he excitedly ran to his room to put on swim trunks for a splashy time at the pool.
My son is now “Dad” too. In fact, I told him that…took all I had inside though, to keep my voice from breaking. After all, I’m his dad—gotta keep the tough as a rock gig, yes?
I’m sure my revelation is not so unique, but it sent a bolt through my heart, nonetheless. Gavin Lee is my new baby grandson and all that I feel is love and the need to take him to the toy store. Or ice cream. And swimming. Whether he addresses me as grandpa, papa, or old man—I’m just fine with that.
OK, so he’s barely born. For now, I’ll settle for tickling his toes and bragging to my friends. This is one old gramps who is proud indeed.