Just call me grandpa

It kind of caught me by surprise.
When son Patrick announced that he and his two children would be moving back to Illinois from their home near the North Carolina shore, I was startled.
And curious.
And flat-out overjoyed.
It's been kind of a complicated stretch for Paddy and his boys, but the end result is a good one. Because now they are living in the place the little guys have always called "the snowy house."  And we, of course, couldn't be happier to have them under our roof.
I'm reveling in the chance to be part of the Breakfast Bunch that now meets every morning in my kitchen before school. It's a dream come true to--once again--be a backer of the Wiley Park Skating League, the Backyard Snowball Society, The Holy Hot Cocoa Club and the Peanut Butter Sandwich Circuit, though I admit I am less overjoyed at the discovery of my renewed memberships in The Sock-Matching Amalgamation, the International Boot-Finding Fellowship, the Missing Glove Marauders, and the Wet Towel Partnership of America.
Suddenly, cereal, white squishy bread and cookie-making materials are back on the regular grocery list, as are almost-daily doses of laundry detergent and dishwasher soap.
I am thinking about buying a cow.
I am grateful that they want to be near me while I fight the fight I gotta fight. There are certain powerful anti-cancer agents in the hugs and laughter of a little boy, as well as in the joy and peace I see in the grandma-lady's eyes.
Plus, here's the thing: "Grandpa" sounds a whole lot better than "stage four cancer patient" any old time.
And that, my friends, is all I ever wanted to be.