I’m hanging out with my 2-year-old granddaughter this week. My son asked me what I wanted her to call me, and I said T. But it’s not my call, and it’s not his. I’m Nampa.
Had to take a break writing this column because she initiated a game of hide and go seek. I had a minute to play with her. I needed 20 before I could seek my laptop and go back to work.
I don’t claim my relationship with my granddaughter is any different than the relationship any of you have with any of yours. It’s just – well, it’s like this.
When she was younger, we went to a nice Italian restaurant for dinner, and she began to get bored and fidgety the way kids do. The noise wasn’t fair to the diners around us, of course, so we took turns taking her outside.
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When it was my turn (finally) I put her in her stroller and drove her to the lobby. We stopped at an indoor pond with lights flashing across the water.
A guy about my age was walking by. He saw us and paused and asked, “What’s being a grandfather like?”
I didn’t know what to say. While I waited for the right words to come, I smiled.
“That good?” he asked.