Try as they might, grandparents can never pick the name their grandchildren call them. As a new grandmother, I naively thought I had a choice in the matter. I mulled over what I wanted to be called in the months before Adella became verbal. For while I relished being a grandmother, I somehow considered myself far too young to fit the grandmother stereotype. (Alas, no longer. My grandchildren have worn me out.)
Finally, I settled upon obāsan, the Japanese word for grandmother. Somehow it paid homage to my time in Japan while also conveying the wisdom and reverence I felt my role deserved. Yet my son Daniel is the only one who ever called me obāsan. Despite my coaxing, when Adella learned to talk, she called me Granma, dropping the d sound. And I liked it.
Young Jim called me Anma. I liked that nickname, too. Two-year-old Jim used it in our own little call-and-response whenever we drove together in the car.
"Anma," he would yell out to make sure that I had not forgotten he was in the backseat.
"Yes, Jim," I would respond.
And we then we would go back and forth, over and over. If I ever tired of our predictable conversation and did not respond, he would only yell Anma more insistently and quickly until I did respond. I found that nickname quite endearing. I hoped it would stick. I was more than a little bit sad when he outgrew it, abandoning it for Grandma with a decided d.
Grandpa was not so quick to discover that he had no control over his nickname. One of Adella's first words was Pop Pop. And while I found the nickname sweet, Scott did not. Perhaps he felt it did not give enough weight to his position of patriarch.
So he corrected Adella frequently. "Grandpa. My name is Grandpa," he would say.
But Pop Pop stuck despite his best efforts. And eventually Scott gave up correcting Adella. Now six years after her birth, I think he seems reconciled to name. In fact, he seems to wear the name as a badge of honor.
Marshall has only recently given me a nickname: Baka. I am not sure how he hit upon this nickname. It bears no resemblance to word Grandma. But Baka it is.
I found this new nickname endearing, too, until today. I connected a few dots.
I asked Chrissy once more what Marshall calls me, just in case I was not hearing him correctly.
"Baka is what he calls you," she confirmed. "He always talks about wanting to go to Baka's house."
I smirked.
"Do you know what baka means in Japanese?"
"No," she replied, curious.
"Fool or idiot," I admitted.
No wise obāsan am I. Merely a fool.
Marshall has not yet mastered English. I doubt he has ever heard a word of Japanese. But there is no foolin' Marshall. He sees me for what I am. I suppose the only way I can spin my new nickname is that I am a fool for love, grandmotherly love that is.
