My daughter-in-law, Blaire, has been given a date on which her doctors will induce labor if the baby has not already arrived. She goes in the hospital on Wednesday night. That means– this time next week, I will be a grandfather. I’m still not sure how I want the newest Prince to refer to me. Karla is going to be “Mimi.” We’ve called her Mimi for years. So Mimi seems to fit. But what should the whippersnapper call me? I still haven’t decided. Here are a few options…
Pops (If I move out west would I then be called “Soda” or if we move down south would they call me “Coke”?)
Paw Paw (There’s a town in Michigan by this name. Listen, If I’m going to be named for a city in Michigan that kid better call me “Ann Arbor”).
PeePaw (this would be appropriate for the grandfathers who wear Depends)
PooPaw (see the above parenthetical comment).
Ice Cream Pop (I do like Ice Cream, but I’m afraid Karla would start to call me “Chubby Pop”).
Preacher Pops (this is what my buttons are called when my shirt is two sizes too small from eating all that ice cream).
Pop Daddy (sounds like something P-Diddy would say. If you don’t know the P-Diddy reference chances are you are already a grandfather)
Pop Pop (apparently, this is what Alice Cooper’s grandchildren call him. If you don’t know who Alice Cooper is you might think Alice is a woman. He’s not).
Gee Gee (this sounds too much like the lesser known 80’s brother band who sounded eerily similar to the Bee Gees. If you’ve never heard of the Bee Gees count yourself “blessed and highly favored”).
Italians call grandfathers, Nonno, which sounds like something Mork from Ork might say (if you know the “Mork from Ork” reference you are probably already a grandfather).
I heard of a set of grandparents who go by the names “Honey and Poo Bear.” (I’m not sure which moniker “honey” or “poo bear” is worse. No thanks).
Some have told me let the kid figure it out. (I’m afraid I’d be called “blah blah” or some other bodily function noise the rest of my days).
Last week, my friend, Tom Ireland, told me, “You can call me anything, just don’t call me late for dinner.” It’s an old joke, but hearing Tom say it made me laugh.
In the end, it doesn’t matter what name I’m called by my grandkid (In case you are wondering, my rotten son and daughter-in-law still haven’t told us if the soon-to-be-born child is a boy or a girl). What does matter is that my grandchild knows that he/she is loved by Karla and me and more importantly knows the love of God and decides to follow Him all of her/his days! 3 John 4 is still my verse, but I’ve had to add a parenthetical comment (the comment is mine, not John’s): I have no greater joy than to hear that my children (and grandbaby) are walking in the truth.