Peas

Today at my cousin's graduation open house, Lyla met two more of her four great-grandparents. There's still one more to meet, and he happens to be the one who will baptize her on Wednesday.

I'm trying to imagine being a great-grandfather, meeting Lyla's grandchildren. If I live to be 80, it's a distinct possibility. But could I ever be a great-great-grandfather?

So let's say our sensible Lyla is 25, married, and financially stable when she becomes a mom. I'll be 55. Then her daughter will pop out a son at age 20, say, making me a 75-year-old great-grandpa. And 18 years later that young man will father his 19-year-old girlfriend's child, making me a 93-year-old great-great-grandpa. Simple!

Four years later, when that little girl and I are sitting and chatting about this and that, I'll explain to her that her great-grandmother Lyla (who will be singing a karaoke duet with Julie in the next room) absolutely hated peas the first time she tried them way back on the last day of May in 2009. And the little girl will look up at my grizzled face and say that she doesn't like peas either.