Poor Z is now Bob

   

   

      Visiting my daughter and her family is always an adventure. We never plan anything—just chaos with a GPS.

We went to Union Station. Gorgeous building. They’ve restored it to its original grandeur. People were taking graduation photos, quinceañera photos, prom pictures… Meanwhile, I’m standing there like, “We need a family group.”

We ate at Harvey’s. Fried chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans—$14 a plate. Gigantic portions. I’m like, who eats this much.”

My son-in-law Rob—he’s a natural comedian. I asked him to take a family picture.
This man turned into Ansel Adams on crack.
He’s crouching, rolling on the ground, twisting the phone like it’s a Nikon with a $5,000 lens.
Even the security guard came over, staring like, “Do I arrest him, or just get in line for headshots?”

Later at home, my grandson Z wanted to play Sequence. After three games, he loses focus. I said:
“Hey Travis, Montana Michael—whatever your name is, kid, your turn.”
He goes, “Just call me Bob.”
Bad move. Because once two women with wine hear that… we’re calling you Bob for the rest of your natural life.

Finally, he stormed upstairs. I go up later to apologize, and there’s a giant teepee in the middle of the bed. 
Turns out—Zak is hiding under a blanket.
I said, “I’m sorry, Can you forgive me?”
And my daughter—God bless her—leans in behind me and whispers, “Bob.”

We completely lost it. We had to leave the room.
I tried to make it up to him—offered my Chocolate Factory Moon Pie.
Silence.

But later, he comes down with a pizza to share. All forgiven.

Still… I know ten years from now, he’ll be in therapy saying, “Everything was fine… until they wouldn't stop calling me Bob.”