Waiting for the perfect name

Two weeks ago my daughter and her husband rushed to Tennessee following a call from their adoption agency. The following week, my husband and I joyously welcomed our first grandchild, a longawaited, new-born baby girl named Evelyn.

This is an exciting milestone in our family. When my daughter and son-in-law first announced they were planning to adopt two years ago, none of us had any idea what a long, and sometimes bumpy road lay ahead. I now know that Evelyn was well worth any hardship. She has a shock of black hair, deeply intelligent brown eyes, a little rosebud mouth, and one adorable dimple that flashes swift as a shooting star when she yawns.

But I also have discovered that there is one last bump in the road to overcome. As a new grandmother, I have been informed that I must decide what Evelyn and all future grandchildren will call me. Ahh, there’s a sticky problem, if ever there was one.

All the customary names for grandmother call to mind, well, old people. Say the word “granny” for instance, and I immediately envision the gray-haired, kerchief-wearing, somewhat heavyset character of Little Red Riding Hood illustrations. Call me granny and you may as well hand me a walking cane, I fret.

What about the traditional “grandma”? That’s what I called my grandmothers — both of whom were quite old when I was a child. It’s also what my children call my mother, a woman who is remarkably young at heart, but nevertheless, has surpassed her 80th birthday.

My son-in-law recommended the Italian Nonna. While I like this, it still sounds like something I have to age into.

Of course, I will, inevitably, age into any grandmotherly title. For now, though, I prefer to remain in denial about the fact that someday I may resemble the kindhearted, gray coifed Granny of fairytale fame. I’m just not quite ready to embrace that image yet.

My husband didn’t have this naming problem. He quickly identified the somewhat dignified, somewhat cozy sounding Papa, as his grandfather designation. The feminine of that, Mama, sounds more appropriate for a woman with a larger bosom than I have.

Because I was struggling with the naming process, my daughter recommended an internet list of possible grandmother names. My initial excitement at finding such a catalog was immediately quelled when I discovered it was topped by the unflattering “Bubba.”

Another search took me to a list of trendy grandmother names. It included among my favorites: Geema, Mimsy and, best of all Glamma, which seems like a name you’d age out of, rather than into. I’m not arguing against the cuteness of these identifiers. Nevertheless, I’m never going to pull off Glamma. And most of the seemed, quite frankly, silly.

In my quest for the perfect name, I spent some time reflecting on the titles of fictitious

grandmothers I admire. What type of grandmother do I aspire to be, I asked myself. Immediately I envisioned the grandmother in Downton Abbey. Now there’s a matriarch to venerate, a woman capable of upholding the family’s entire moral and cultural spectrum on the tip of her parasol. In nearly every episode, she spouted sage advice like tea.

Her grandchildren referred to her as Grahndmahmah, with the distinct eloquence of British royalty. I like the dignity of this appellation versus, say, MeeMaw. But when I suggested it to my daughter and son-in-law they countered with a different fictitious name.

“If you don’t choose a real name we’re going to call you Shabadoo,” my daughter sent in a text.

Then, as a joke, we began referring to my grandmother name as Shabadoo in back and forth text messages and phone calls. And

I realized we were embarking on dangerous territory, in which Shabadoo might actually become my grandmother name. What with the nickname most likely being Shabby, this was a slippery slope, indeed.

I decided to return to the internet and peruse the lists more carefully. Tootsie, Momsy, the dreaded Pudge! All these names resonate with foolishness, I reflected.

Then, I imagined Evelyn calling me any of those names and it finally hit me. They aren’t ridiculous, they are just childish. They are deeply personal designations marking a special relationship between a grandmother and her grandchildren. Many of them sound silly because they are, in fact, playful.

So far, I’ve just decided to put off making any decision on a grandmother name. Evelyn won’t speak for two years, so I feel like I can wait. When I do choose a name (or when one is selected for me!) I know it will be something playful. Because now I’m a grandmother: let the playing begin!