Carnett: At 15, grandson is ad-libbing a little too much

My 2-year-old grandson, Judah, loves to play with his fire engine, dump truck, ambulance (he calls it a “lamb-eh-lance”) and police car.

His favorite self-generated sound effect while playing with these toys is “beep-beep-beep-beep-beep.” He makes the beeping noise while one of his vehicles negotiates a tight corner in reverse. He somehow deduced — on his own — that beeping is associated with backing up.

Judah loves big, loud vehicles, preferably with sirens. On Friday mornings he and I hang out for a while in our frontyard watching the CR&R Environmental Services trash truck do its heavy lifting, whining and crashing things on our block. I enjoy it almost as much as he does.

My eldest grandson, Ethan (Judah’s cousin), will turn 16 in July. I remember when his favorite sound effect was “choo-choo, chugga-chugga-chugga.” Ethan had little interest in rescue vehicles or garbage trucks but was a Thomas the Train fanatic.

No longer. He likes driving his dad’s truck on country roads, the Manchester United Football Club (which is actually a soccer club) and girls — in that order.

A fateful moment in our relationship occurred just weeks ago. Ethan dropped the dreaded “me too” bomb on me. You probably see where I’m going with this.

By contrast, Judah, 26 months of age, still thinks of me as super-smart, super-strong and super-hilarious (hopefully not supercilious). I work hard to keep that fiction alive.

I open my arms and he still comes running. He’s not embarrassed when I hug him in public. He cries when I wave “bye-bye,” which, in turn, causes me to cry. “Where’s opa (grandpa)?” is the first thing Judah asks when he awakens from his afternoon nap. Yep, I’m still pretty important.

But, getting back to Ethan …

I used to be special to him too. Next to his Thomas the Train, I was the most revered object in his playroom. We had so much fun together. But Thomas and I have been relegated to the hinterlands of Sodor (if you understand the Sodor reference, you’re far too familiar with Thomas the Train cosmology).

Ethan lives with his mother (my daughter), father and three sisters in North Carolina. They’ve been there since he was 5. By necessity, we converse often by phone.

We’ve always closed our conversations in the same manner. It’s become our way of showing affection. I say, “I love you, bud.” He responds with, “Love you too, opa.” Click.

That’s been our practice — until weeks ago.

I wrapped up our conversation that day with my usual, “I love you, bud.” And he responded, “Me too.” Click.

Wait! No, no, no, no, NO! That won’t do. That’s not the line. Get the stage manager over here, now! Check the script.

I say, “I love you, bud.” And your response is, “LOVE YOU TOO, OPA.” See, it’s there in black and white, just as I wrote it. Where’d this “Me too” ad hominem come from? I’ll not give an inch on this one.

Playwright Tennessee Williams wrote this line for Big Daddy to bellow at his son, Brick, at a crucial moment in “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof”: “I’ve got the guts to die. What I want to know is have you got the guts to live?” Think Williams would have permitted an actor to arbitrarily modify it to, “I’m gnarly. Wassup with you?”

Certainly not.

But I have yet to get this hot mess sorted out.

I remember going to my father when I was about 12 and saying, “Do you mind if I don’t call you daddy anymore, daddy? Can I just call you dad?”

Dad didn’t seem fazed by that. He looked over the top of his Time magazine and said something like, “Works for me.”

No emotion. No cheap theatrics.

Sadly, I’m not circumspect like dad. He had a penchant for cool. My default setting is blind hysteria.

While I’m thinking about it, I must endeavor not to hyperventilate when Ethan and I finally have our discussion.

That would be bad form.

JIM CARNETT, who lives in Costa Mesa, worked for Orange Coast College for 37 years.