When I found out I was pregnant almost a year ago I was hoping to have a boy, not because of some gender preference, but because if we had a boy we were going to name him, in part, after my grandfather.
My grandfather is one of my greatest influences and one of the most supportive people in my life. If it was not for the large part he and my grandmother played in raising me I would not be the person I am today, I would not have the life I have today.
This summer my grandfather turns 90 and baby girl and I are making plans to fly out to see him. Well, I’m making plans, she mostly sits in her playard and babbles. Joe can’t come with us (unless he happens to have work to do in Regina at that time of the year, fingers crossed), but we are making the journey anyway because I can think of nothing more important to me that for my daughter to meet this man.
I’m not a stupid person, I’m not in any kind of denial. I know how lucky we are that Gramps is still with us, and I know that despite his good health he will only be getting older and some time sooner than later we are going to lose him – And I know that when we do, I will fall down hard and not be able to get up for a long while.
The fall will be that much harder if I lose him and don’t have a single picture proof that he held her in his arms and a single story to tell her that he doted on her and bounced her on his lap and called her his GGD. (Yeah, my 89-year-old grandfather calls the dog ‘Dawg’ and my daughter his GGD, and he signs his emails GGF).
He will pretend it doesn’t matter. He will pretend that our visit is solely for my mother’s benefits, as he did when I went out there last Christmas, but he will as happy to see us as we are to see him, and I will remember this trip for the rest of my life. I will write it all down so she knows.