It seems there's no denying it.
Three months ago when I was gifted with the information that Media Girl, our daughter, had a positive test result on a home pregnancy test kit, I reacted as any level headed parent would. I clicked my heels three times and said: there will be no babies in this home, there will be no babies in this home, there will be no babies in this home.
Six weeks ago when Media Girl's stomach began to swell, I convinced myself she had used a packet of yeast rather than Good Season's Italian Dressing Mix in the marinade and the swelling was nothing more than the intestinal equivalent of rising bread dough.
But the dough hasn't fallen and now I'm being asked if I want to be called Grandpa or Granddad.
Which has me saying - just hold on one doggone minute. My hair might be a little thin on top, but the prefix of grand is not a fit for me in any way, shape or form. The math might say I'm fifty-five, but I'm sure those six pack abs I've been trying to develop for thirty years are right around the corner.
So while there may be no denying a baby is on the way, my identifier of choice is: Hey, Mister.
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