When my oldest grandson Zachary, who is now in his twenties, started to talk, he had a very hard time pronouncing certain words, as do most children. He had no trouble with Mom and Dad, and he managed to spit out his grandmother’s name, Oma, with ease. But when it came to Grandpa, he just couldn’t wrap his little tongue around it. But he could say Pepa. And so it stuck. To Zachary, and his brother Christopher, I am not Grandpa, I am Pepa.
That was well and good, and seemed to work, that is until our other son’s oldest daughter was born. As she started to talk, she decided that I should be called Pop Pop. You’d think I was a wad of bubble gum or a glass of champagne. But that too stuck. And so my two granddaughters both call me Pop Pop.
Our third child, our daughter Elizabeth, and her partner Erica later adopted a pair of sisters. I decreed that to keep things straight they should also call me Pop Pop. That way, if I was interacting with a grandson, I'd remember I was Pepa, and if it was a granddaughter, I was assured I was known as Pop Pop.
Usually that’s OK as well, but when all six of them are together, they sometimes argue about what my real name is! “No,” Megan used to say to her boy cousins, “he’s my Pop Pop!” I’ve signed more than one birthday card with the wrong name—and you better believe I hear about it!
You can see why I get confused!
The truth is, however, I love both names—and I’ll love a third if that’s my fate! For you see both of them remind me that these guys love me—and that I love them more than I would have ever imagined possible! And in the end, loving and being loved is far more important to our identity than whatever else we may conjure up!
(Photo: Five of six grandchildren, taken four years ago.)
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