Brandon has three grandfathers: his mother's father, his father's father . . . and me. I'm his father's mother's husband, Grandpa Paul. The other day, on a visit to Brandon's home, his mother asked him to introduce my wife and me to two of his friends. The first was easy: this is my Grandma Kristine. Then he paused.
"And who's that?" prompted his mother, pointing at me.
"Well," Brandon offered. "It's kinda complicated."
Yes, it is. Brandon is only 10, but already he has figured out that "family" is kinda complicated these days.
My wife and I have a dozen little kids who refer to us in various forms of grandpa/grandma. My daughter's children have a Grandma Kristine, but they never met Grandma Becky, who died before any of them were born. My wife's sons' children have the complicated situation I've already described. When they were really little, it was easier for them. Now the oldest girls are entering the teen years, and they're in charge of explaining the genealogy to their brothers. I'll leave it to them.
And I've not even dared here to wade into the swamp of family get-togethers, such as Christmas or birthday parties.
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