WHATEVER SHE CALLS ME

With rising tones my granddaughter talks to me. She is not quite saying full sentences. But certain words are clearly articulated. She says, "book" accompanied by sign language. My daughter is a reading teacher. And baby signs are a speech-training technique.

Choosing a favorite book from her shelf Olivia comes to me turning her back to be picked up into my lap so I can read to her. We both love the ritual. She used to want to turn the pages before I could finish the sentences. But now she has taken to looking at the intricate illustrations on each page. I wait patiently until she is ready to move on.

She also knows the word, "Bible." Her father says she has always been able to recognize a bible. She speaks the word with tenderness and awe. And she delights in our family praying at the dinner table. She laughs playfully looking at the adults on either side of her. With folded hands she says "Amen." Olivia already recognizes God's presence in her home. Jesus said, "Allow little children to come to me, for of such is the kingdom of heaven." We draw near to God with her.

"Baby" is another of her words. This morning she brought a baby Elmo up to me. Pointing at the stuffed doll's diaper she held her wrinkled nose. I find overwhelming delight in such play-acting. She has done this sort of thing since she was barely big enough to walk. My wife, an early childhood specialist, says this is pretty special behavior. I don't doubt it at all. And of course, I am totally unbiased.

It takes me a while to understand some of her words. She continues to repeat herself enthusiastically. One of the problems is the pacifier in her mouth. I guess if Demosthenes could develop diction by speaking with pebbles in his mouth, Olivia can learn to speak around her "baba." She has not yet thought being understood important enough to pull out the plug to speak. I predict that action will signal the end of the pacifier for her.

At this point I am "Ga ga." My daughter suggested that I be called, "Grand Father" before Olivia was born. We were talking about grandparent names as soon as we knew Olivia was on the way. We felt like our own parents had taken permanent possession of some of the usual names. It seemed disrespectful to take on their identifications. My mother had been "Nana" to 18 grandchildren for over 40 years. My wife's mother was, "Granny-D." My own grandmothers had been "Gram" and "Granddear." My wife's father was "Papa," and my father "Granddad." Those names were sacrosanct.

My wife chose "Grammy." It fits her well. We used to think Graham Crackers were named for my grandmother. Our grandchildren may think the same. My daughter suggested "Grandfather" for me when I announced to the family that I refused to be called something silly like, "Peepaw." (I mean no offence to those who are dignifying this title.) My wife tried to dissuade me saying, "The poor child will not be able to pronounce Grandfather." She was right, of course.

Olivia makes a great effort at "Dave!" calling up the stairwell to my attic study in imitation of my wife. I come down to the uncontrolled laughter of the rest of the family with Olivia grinning mischievously knowing she has entertained everyone in the house. I take her in my arms and say. "I'm not Dave. I am grandfather." "Ga ga" is her best shot at that difficult word. But I stick to the reply I gave two years ago when my wife said she would not be able to pronounce it. "I will answer to whatever this child calls me."