Now that I have successfully offloaded my robust DNA into a younger, bouncier life-form that can throw itself into a snowbank with impunity, there's only one real goal left: meeting the next generation. The role of grandpa is just the best gig ever—all of the idol worship, none of the poo. Just a license to putter about, sip Scotch, and rant indiscriminantly.
I owe this ambition to my own grandfather, who was the first best friend I ever had. I lived across the street from him for ten years, and I spent about 9½ of them at his house, shooting hoops and devouring Wheat Thins by the carton. We moved away when I was 12, and he died five months later, on Super Bowl Sunday, after an aortic aneurysm. The news was the first memory I have of complete sadness, and every Super Bowl a little trickle of that memory bubbles to the surface.
And I get to thinking about mortality, and how long it took for me to procreate, and whether I'll live long enough to see my grandchildren, much less be a part of their young lives. Recently, I put voice to these aimless thoughts. And my wife, sensing an unwelcome shift into cheesy sentiment, said, “Well, we could always teach Robert to treat women like objects, so he’ll impregnate his girlfriend when he's a teenager.”
This is why I married the right woman, who will care for me when I am old and, when the grandkids come over, will remind me of their names.
Editor's note: As LOD types this, his son is sitting on the floor, wearing nothing but his new soccer jersey and playing with a loaded stapler. So the whole issue may become moot.