Granddarling had a birthday party Saturday. This is the child who, at age 3, quizzes me on questions from the Shorter Catechism and deems my answers “pretty good.” She was in rare form at her party, from the sparkly red Mary Janes on her feet, to the strawberry ChapStick smeared on her lips (courtesy of an aunt, Daughter No. 1). The scene had me reminiscing about events surrounding her birth.

That year my husband had an accident, the kind that took two hours and the Jaws of Life to free him from. In the midst of intense emergency room emotions, our son made the big announcement: a baby was on the way, and boy, was he glad his dad was alive to know it.

So as my husband started months of physical therapy and my daughter-in-law battled morning, afternoon and evening sickness, I began my own quest – for a name. No, not one for the baby. One for me, the grandma.

When else do you actually get to choose your own name, unless you’re moving to Hollywood or obtaining an internet domain? (Well, I take that back. I once did a stint as “Kelly” on an AM radio station when another announcer was Kim.) But this grandmother name game, I decided, was serious business. I tried to imagine all the possible scenarios.

“_________, please tie my shoe.”

“Will __________ come to the service desk to pick up her grandchild?”

“_________________” written in bold calligraphy on graduation and wedding invitations.

Sobering thoughts, indeed.

My husband, so unlike me, settled on his name as he does with many issues – quickly and with no second guessing. Actually, he had decided some time ago that he liked “Boss,” a term of endearment he’d seen it work well in the grandfather role of his employer, a former governor whose first choice had been – get this – “Chairman.”

As a result I was left to choose a complement to Boss. Bossy? Not exactly the image I’m after.

It wasn’t long before I began voicing my dilemma at family gatherings. What better subject to discuss over a pot roast? However, with five children (and potential parents of name-users) all exercising their veto powers, I didn’t make much progress.

I appealed to their years of Latin. Avia?

I humbled myself. Big Mama?

Finally, I took an approach their generation could appreciate. I googled it.

Among the hundreds of suggestions were, of course, traditional names such as Granny, Memaw and Nana. Then there was a trendy list, topped by the likes of G-Mom, BeBe and Lovey. And for the unique grandma? Try Mambo, Gitchey or my personal favorite – Nanoo.

Truth be told, I managed to drag the name saga out for a full nine months. I had a good excuse until the other grandmother-to-be settled on hers – Essie. I figured it was like the wedding attire rule: you let the bride’s mother pick hers first. But in talking with my peers who had already made the passage into grandmotherhood, I discovered no matter what title they eventually came into, all seemed to agree on one thing. Grandchildren are just . . . so . . . well . . . GRAND.

So I decided I had it all wrong. The weight of coming up with the right name should rightfully rest on the tiny shoulders of the first grandchild, who would undoubtedly be GRAND. And someday as we sat around the Sunday dinner table in the midst of all those with veto powers, he (or she – they wanted to be surprised) would look at me fondly from where he (or she) sat in a highchair and utter a syllable or two that would stick.

And that’s pretty much what eventually happened. I’m just glad Granddarling didn’t go for Gitchey.

 

Wesson resident Kim Henderson is a freelance writer who writes for The Daily Leader. Contact her at kimhenderson319@gmail.com.