In the current vernacular which I despise – that of using nouns for verbs – I apparently have morphed from a parent into a grandparent.

Remember the word as we used to know it: Metamorphosis meant any transformation or a marked change or appearance, character, condition of function. All these years the word applied to doggoned caterpillars in cocoons turning out to be butterflies, maggots developing into flies, tadpoles emerging as frogs and magical frogs becoming princes.

It was one of those Darwin-type words used to describe the change in the structure and habits of animals, usually in the postembryonic stage.

Unfortunately, since the language itself goes through these metamorphoses, what has happened is that every small club has “morphed” into a larger organization; the state’s department of human services has “morphed” into an even more unwieldy and bureaucratic agency; and the CIA or FBI is “morphing” into what-knows-what.

All I know is that I’ve been transformed. Not like being born again as some folks claim; it’s the gradual evolution, as Darwin forecast, of a parent changing into a grandparent just like tiny eggs become turtles and big eggs become ostriches and even larger eggs become Arnold Schwarzenegger.

All I know is that I found myself driving to the store for only one item: peanut butter crunchy granola bars. Normally, I wouldn’t make a trip for any single thing except a pack of cigarettes, before I finally quit.

And, normally, I wouldn’t stare for hours – mesmerized – into faces smaller than honeydew melons … just sweeter. Normally, I wouldn’t translate every grunt, word or sentence into “profound” statements to be recorded on video or in a journal.

But that’s what happens when you’ve morphed from a parent into a grandparent. You erect swing sets more durable and massive than the back deck; you gleefully push strollers for miles when you hardly walk down the driveway half the time; you take pictures by the hundreds; you while away afternoons skipping rocks at low tide; you delight in throwing a ball or snuggling on the couch or reading storybooks or saying prayers. You beam as if you’ve seen the sunrise every time they hug your neck; you laugh out loud; you cry in silence when they’re gone. You are a grandparent, pure and simple.

Yet, thinking back on all of it – all the years that went into it – maybe there hasn’t been a metamorphosis after all. As a parent, maybe you were just as patient, willing to spend time with your kids, comparing the textures of mosses in the woods, or sitting at the roll-top desk drawing letters or pictures or twirling the compass to make circles on the paper. Or showing them how to mix cakes or finger-paint or dance or shoot basketballs or fish or ride bikes or tie shoelaces or ponytails or bow-ties. Maybe … hopefully.

Maybe you’ve just forgotten, and it takes grandchildren to refresh your memories as well as your life.