Papa, Papa, Papa!

My 1 ½ year-old granddaughter, Holland, toddles through our front door, squealing with delight.

“Holland!” I yell, running into the entryway.

Her eyes are huge with excitement.

My arms are open wide.

Her arms are open wide.

“Holland!” I rush towards her.

She gurgles with glee, arms outstretched.

It is like a scene out of a movie: Two people, so overcome with love, that they can’t wait to fall into each other’s embrace.

I get down on my knees and wait for Holland’s little arms to wrap around me.

“Papa!” Holland screams in delight, giving me a gentle, yet firm push out of the way. 

I tumble to the floor, Holland races past me, and falls into the arms of the one and only…

PAPA!

(My husband, Steve.)

It’s all about Papa…

Papa! Papa! Papa!

As Holland squeezes Papa, she gives me a courtesy wave.

Now, don’t get me wrong, Holland loves me.

The two of us have a great time, building blocks, reading books, blowing bubbles.

But often in the midst of us playing, Holland will get a faraway look in her eyes, as if in a trance, and whisper…

“Papa.”

I’m convinced that the quieter Holland whispers your name, the more she loves you.

“Papa,” Holland purrs.

Sometimes she just mouths, “Papa,” as if the word is too sacred to utter aloud.

I don’t get it.

Sure, he’s a great guy, but have you met me?

I’m a ton of fun.

“Holland, you know I’m not like a regular grandma,” I remind her. “I’m a cool grandma.”

She smiles.

“Papa,” she whispers. 

“Ma,” I say. “Can you say Ma?”

“Papa,” she smiles.

“Ma,” I instruct.

This can go on for a while.

Sometimes she surprises me though and throws in a “Dixie.” 

Dixie is our dog.

So just to review, it’s Papa for the Gold and Dixie takes the Silver.

I’d like to think I’m still on the podium.

But, seriously, what’s the deal with Papa?

My theory is that Papa is bribing her with non-approved sugary snacks when no one is looking.

Not cool, Papa.

“I’m not going to stoop to that,” I tell Holland, shaking my head and slipping her a Snickers.

When her mom picks her up, she eyes Holland suspiciously.

“Who gave her chocolate?”

Steve and I both answer, “Not me.”

Holland smiles, a faint dark ring around her mouth.

“MAAAAA!” Holland bellows.

Now you say my name.

Although, it’s not quite the angelic tone she uses for Papa’s name.

It’s more like the wail of a New Jersey housewife.

“MAAAAAA!” Holland screeches, ratting me out.

Then she runs to me and wraps her arms around me.

Totally worth it.

“I love you, Holland,” I whisper to her.

She whispers back…

“Papa.”