Grown men and women are brought to their emotional knees slobbering over the thought of becoming a grandparent. They spend months imagining the joys of bonding with a few pounds of flesh that’s wrapped like a taco in a yard of swaddling that will, in all likelihood, evolve into the threadbare, filthy rag the little prince or princess will drag around for the next few years in a tiny-fisted death grip.
Yet somewhere inside that broad fantasy of grandparenting lurks an all-important issue. No, not funding the college savings plan. Rather, by what name will the grandchild address you?
Let me state right up front that this is a question over which you’ll have absolutely no control, since little ones have minds and mouths of their own. So, about the time the bundle of joy begins to vocalize, and you’ve asked her for the umpteenth time, “Can you say ‘grandpop’? Yes, you can, little sweetness … yes you can, my little princess.” And finally, miracle of miracles, the kid burps out something like “glabooc.” Or “vlack-vlack baba,” or some other nonsensical handle, and it’s as if a white-hot iron has branded that name on your forehead, and nothing you say or do can ever change it. Until you keel over at 103 years, after a round of tennis or a hand of hearts, you will be forever known by that ridiculous sobriquet. And like a really bad meal at a very expensive restaurant, you will claim to love it.
How do I know? I’ve been there.
Yes, one day I leaned over the bassinette, looked the grandkid straight in her huge, innocent eyes and whispered, “Poppy, gramps, geepop, pop-pop! Pick one, or I won’t change your stinky diaper.”
The only response I got from reciting this string of reasonable grandfather names was a sour burp and a cute little smile. Heck, she was only six months out of the womb and her most favorite word was waaaaaaaaaaaaa!
Thus began my quest for a name by which my granddaughter would address me. You may believe this to be a trivial pursuit. But from what I found, there’s a deep wellspring of interest involving this rather futile quest. If you don’t believe me, check out Google and search “names for grandparents.” In a matter of seconds, up pops more than two million hits. Honest, two million.
Back in my day, probably your day as well, most kids had two sets of grandparents: mom’s and dad’s parents. In those less complex times, what we called these old folks was relatively simple and straightforward: Names like grandma and grandpa or gramps and grams fitted Depression-era grandparents quite nicely.
If there happened to be strains of ethnicity in one’s family, one might resort to less ordinary handles. Names like grandmere and grandpere for the French. Anyoka and apoka if you had a hint of Hungarian in your genes. Mammo and daddo for a touch of Gaelic Irish. Bubbe and zeydeh for those of the Jewish persuasion. Maybe oma and opa if your GPs were German and possibly ugogo and ubabamkhulu if you had a bit of South Africa in your bloodline. In America’s Deep South, names for grandparents tended to be rather down-to-earth and undemanding. Names like Hank, Big Mamma, Rooster, Big Daddy, and J-Bird were not only prevalent and easy to remember but were equally useful as names for a hunting dog or a sheriff’s deputy.
But like so much in life, naming grandparents these days has gotten a lot more complicated. For one thing, people are living longer. The ripe age of ninety is said to be the new sixty, right? So the chance of a child having a great grandparent, or several GGPs, for that matter, is no longer out of the question. Add to that the astonishing rate of divorce, even multiple divorces, and remarriages, and suddenly the number and variety of participants a child might need to include in this name-game madness increases exponentially.
It is therefore possible for a little rugrat today to have a personal posse loaded down with eight or ten names, many of them silly, albeit necessary. After all, when there are a whole bunch of Grandmoms and Granddads—plus a few GGPs thrown in—what’s the kid going to call them?
Fortunately, my granddaughter only has to remember four. There’s poppy and mims on one side, and my wife is gramtoo.
As for me? I’m teaching the kid to call me … Mister Slosberg.
Photo courtesy of Grandparents.com
