How does something as innocuous as bananas weave their way into a grandmother’s identity crisis?’
Very unexpectedly!
While neither I nor any of my BFFs are anywhere nearly old enough to be grandmothers, we have, nonetheless, been blessed with little grand-progeny at an alarming rate over the past couple of years. Some of us have zoomed from zero to two and even three in just twenty-four short months (the three thanks to the unexpected jolt - er. joy - of twins). It stands to reason, then, the favorite parlor game of late has become choosing what these munchkins will call us.
And, since Goldie Hawn snagged the very hippest handle of all (grandson Ryder famously calls her “Glam-Ma”), what’s been left to the rest of us mere mortals has run the gamut. In my circle of girlfriends alone, we have a GiGi, a Sasha, a CoCo, a Ghe, a Nana, a Nonnie, a NeNe, a Mai, a MiMi, a Grammy, a Gran………………(notice, if you will, there’s not a granny or even a grandma/grandmother in the bunch)! After test-driving several monikers, I settled on “Nana.” Though it may not have quite filled the bill as “too cool for school,” still, I reasoned, it didn’t make me sound - or feel - too ancient. My own very adored grandmothers - Bubba and Nannie - would have approved, I decided.
In retrospect, just how deluded was I to think I really had the final say in this decision?
My new name became official on September 26, 2009 with the birth of our first grandchild, Julian Evin, and irrevocably sealed on February 11, 2011 with the arrival of his sister, Collins Joy. Or, so I thought.
As those early months quickly passed, and Mr. Baby (a nickname I bestowed on him shortly after we first met) progressed into the stages of cooing and babbling, I eagerly began coaching him to try out my new name. I mean, c’mon! Nana is easily as entry-level as Dada and Mama. One syllable repeated repeatedly, so just how hard could it be?
So, imagine my euphoria when, during a weekend visit to see our Prince Precious and his parents, I awoke early one morning to the delightful, albeit insistent, sound of Nana! Nana! NaNA! NANA!! coming from the direction of the living room. Never mind that I’m not now, nor will I ever be, a morning person. I bolted from my bed and burst out of the guest room in response to this unrelenting summons from our little prince.
Rounding the corner, tearing through the living room and into the dining room, I found our Adorable Precious enthroned in his high chair (actually one of those plastic, strap-on, booster contraptions this generation tries to pass off as a respectable high chair), continuing his chant, NAAAAAAAAAAAA-NAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!! Through cobwebbed eyes, I replied in froggy morning voice, “Nana’s here, baby!”
But, he had other ideas.
Peering backwards over the top of his chair, he was clearly calling “NaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaNaaaaaaaaaaaa” toward the direction of the kitchen. Out rushed his daddy, fumbling with a ba-nana, struggling to peel it quickly enough to break off a chunk and shove it into Mr. Baby’s chubby cheeks.
With a sheepish look, my son reluctantly explained that in the World ‘O Mr. Baby, NaNa indeed referred to a tropical Chaquita or Dole and not me.
So much for so carefully choosing my own name!
But, it wasn’t many weeks later, as I was talking on the phone with Mr. Baby, that he blurted out “NANNIE!” To me! On purpose. And, the next time we went to visit, he ran to me shouting “Nannie! Nannie!” as I got out of the car. At that point, he could’ve called me Dirt Bag and it would’ve been ok, because I’d never heard anything sweeter in my life! (I must admit it took time to shake off the sense of unworthiness at sharing the same name as one of my own precious grandmothers, but I’ve finally gotten over that).
So, from that moment, Nannie it was, Nannie it is and Nannie it will be!
Never let it be said that a grandmother EVER has the last word!
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