For some reason, during a recent conversation between my wife and I, we stumbled upon the topic of what we would like our grand-kids to call us, should we ever be blessed with any many, many years down the road. As far as I am concerned, you cannot begin planning stuff like this too far in advance. If you aren’t careful, all of the other grandparents will have the cool grandparent names like “Papaw” or “Gramps” and you will be stuck with something that happened to fall out of the kid’s mouth one day like “Nonka” or “Dooter”. No thank you.
Therefore, I would like to decree that, when the time comes, I intend to be referred to by my official grandparent nickname, “King Richard”.
What the hell, you might ask?
What’s not to like? It is regal. It doesn’t sound silly, assuming the kid doesn’t have some sort of speech impediment causing the whole thing to crash down in a big fiery “King Witchard” mess. Plus, it allows me a level of anonymity when dealing with the grand-kids, thus keeping my hip James H. persona filled with street-cred, or whatever it happens to be filled with at the moment.
Assuming my wife chooses something more traditional, such as the ubiquitous “Nana”, my name will blend nicely. “Here comes Nana and King Richard!” they will announce.
Yes, young one.
Here doth come King Richard.
And he is pretty freakin’ awesome.