My daughter recently gave birth to her second child. And unlike the first time, I am willing, uh, find it necessary, and resolved to admit that, yes, I am a grandfather. Three years ago, I was hesitant to use that term because I thought of grandfathers as retired, dithering coots who watch Matlock reruns and feed the squirrels at the park. Well, I am now retired, and I do feed squirrels, albeit at my house. So yes, I guess, I am the girl’s grandfather.
More importantly, I now have three years of experience as a
grandfather, although I don’t allow the rugrat to use the G-word; he calls me
“Pops”. And we get along great because he apparently got a large hit of my DNA.
My mother-in-law, the boy’s great-grandmother, loudly laments:
"Grandchildren are supposed to be a mixture of everybody, but not this
one! He's just all Donald Ake".
Hey! I
can hear you! I’m standing right here.
However, I cannot dispute her observation. The kid looks
like me, acts like me, and even laughs like me.
This doesn’t please me as much as you might think. There is
a reason that God gave me two daughters and no sons. The universe does not need
any more of my testosterone-fueled DNA running around. I was a terror as a
child, and my wife was spared from having to raise one, let alone, two
terrorists. To illustrate …
Two of my mom’s favorite stories about me:
One evening, soon after they put me in my crib for the
night, I bounded into the front room. My parents were alarmed that somehow, at
my young age, I had managed to scale the high crib wall and reach the floor
without injury. They went to my room and feverishly worked for half an hour,
securing the crib so I could not escape again. Mind you, my father was a
mechanical genius, so at that point, the crib was deemed escape-proof, and I
was put back to bed.
My parents returned to the living room, exhausted from the
task. They had barely caught their breath when I casually reappeared. “Think
you can keep me in that crib? – Here. Hold my bottle.” That was the last
night I slept in that crib.
Story # 2 – I enjoyed escaping captivity and running wild.
This caused significant problems for my mother anytime she took me out of the
house. I would bolt away without warning. One time, we were at my grandparents'
house, and she made sure all the doors were locked and secured. However, moments
later, she looked out the front window and saw me running full speed across the
street and down the alley. She had to run like mad to finally catch me, and she
was not an athletic woman.
I was so uncontrollable my parents installed a chain lock
on the outside of my door to keep me inside my room when I misbehaved. I
remember hating to be locked in and screaming while pushing hard against the
door.
Recessive Genes
It is odd that my grandson would mirror me so closely
because I carry recessive genes. My family is made up of short people on both
sides. My dad was 5'7"; somehow, I ended up almost 6’4”. Recessive genes
should show up every hundred years or so, similar to me showing up to help out
in the kitchen. My detractors, and even some of my friends, will tell you that
it is a good thing my genes are recessive because we don't want many people
like me on the loose.
A Brand New Start?
With the birth of the second child, a girl, there is
renewed hope now. The family is joyously optimistic that she will inherit the
outstanding traits of the rest of the family and that my genes will indeed be
recessive and retreat to the outer limits of the universe, not showing up again
until maybe 2084, when I will be long gone, and the damage to society is
minimized.
They named her Avery. When I heard this name was under
consideration, I lobbied very hard for her name to be Akery. I mean, c’mon man!
It’s just one freakin’ letter different! Would that have been so difficult?
The hope is that Avery will be a normal, reserved, pleasant
child, totally different, and better than her grandfather. So, here’s what we
know about baby Avery so far:
- - People say she looks like her brother. But if
her brother looks like me, then by logic …. Ah, let’s forget this one and try
to find something more positive.
- She is a very long and skinny baby – a unique shape for a newborn. When my daughter said the phrase "long, skinny baby," it triggered something deep in my memory. I had heard that specific term repeatedly when I was a kid. Ah, yes, my mother spoke of this unusually long, skinny baby she had birthed – did I mention I’m an only child?
- - She has huge hands – I can palm a basketball.
- - She has long, skinny feet. “Long, skinny feet”
is another term I had not heard in decades. Again, I can remember my mother disparagingly
using the term as we drove around the city searching for dress shoes in size 13
– narrow. We were lucky when we found the only store that sold them. (Akron/Canton
peeps, can you find the pun in the previous sentence?)
Well, the family is so happy with baby Avery and optimistic
about her future that I’m not going to darken the mood and reveal any of this. I’m
hoping that the early indications are incorrect and she grows out of it or
maybe gains more weight in her feet, or whatever. Furthermore, we hope her
personality reflects everyone else in the family and is nothing like mine.
Because no one deserves two children with my disposition. My parents didn’t even
want that – that’s why they stopped at one.
It seems when it comes to grandchildren – my genes are
recessive but very aggressive.
