Grandma

     Yesterday I found myself flying home from Washington D.C. with a cell phone full of baby pictures of my week-old grandson, Flynn, and a brand new title of "Grandmother."  Or maybe nana, mimi, baba, grams, gigi, or one of the other non-traditional grandmother names that seem to be preferred these days.
     My moniker's still up in the air.  I used to think I had a strong opinion about it--not so much about what he'd actually call me, but with some pretty strong notions about what I didn't want to be called.
     One of my own grandmothers was called "Ma," a name she got from her first grandchild and that was handed down to the rest of us as we came along.  It was the only name I ever called her for 25 years, and it never crossed my mind that she might have preferred something different--something a little more sophisticated or modern.  "Ma" was who she was.  It was only as an adult that it began to sound a little Hatfield and McCoy to me.  Backwoods, hillbillyish.  It might have been right for her, but it wasn't right for me. I definitely didn't want to be a "Ma."
     Nor did I want to be a "Granny," the name given by my cousins to their other grandmother.  This just sounded way too frumpy, conjuring up a stout, gray haired, farm lady, wearing a faded apron around her waist while wringing the necks of chickens.  Actually, it sounded pretty much like who Granny was.
     But not like who I am.  I'm a modern grandmother just like my contemporaries.  We don't  have white hair-- and won't--unless we choose to.  Even then, we'll probably call it platinum.  We still shop at the Gap, cook with olive oil instead of lard, and buy our chickens precut and mainly deboned.
     And, although we anxiously look forward to grandkids, we cringe a little at the thought of being called something as old-fashioned as grandma, or granny, or ma.
     Flynn has already made a big impression on me.  As soon as I held him that first day in the hospital, I knew I'd recognize him anywhere.  At least until I saw him in the nursery with five other swaddled babies, three of whom also had dark hair and big eyes, and two of those who shared his blue name plate.  I was too far away to read names, so ended up waving to them all, just in case.
     Over the course of the next 10 days I had a lot more face time with Flynn, and I'm positive I'd recognize him in the nursery now.  He's the one that likes the orange pacifier better than the green one, and who sucks on his fists when the orange one isn't near at hand.  He makes cute little noises and funny little faces, wrinkling his forehead and scrunching his mouth into dozens of different pouts and an occassional grin.  Maybe not all that different from those other babies in the nursery, except that his face is firmly imprinted on my heart.  I'd recognize him anywhere.
     I'm more worried about him recognizing me.  I won't get to see him again for another month, and after that he'll be flying off to Africa for two years, and then to some other foreign country as his parents traverse the world with their careers in the foreign service.
     Not exactly the relationship I had with Ma, who lived just a short bike ride away and cooked Sunday dinner for the whole extended family every single week.  And not like the relationship my cousins had with Granny, who lived just a short walk away down a country road.  My relationship with Flynn will be a more modern one, with a lot of our future face time occurring over Skype instead of across a dinner table.
     Flynn and I practiced his "oohs" and "aahs" during my visit, but he's not going to be calling me anything for quite a while.  The ball's in my court, and I'm a little surprised to find myself leaning towards the rather old-fashioned "Grandma."  I think it's because I'd like to bring something a little traditional into this modern relationship.  But I'm not totally committed.  
     I'm pretty sure that if I'm ever on Skype and  hear a "Ma!" floating across cyberspace, I'll change my mind.
     "I'm right here Flynn."