Babi was out. Grandma was also out. Bubby for sure was out. Bubby was the stuff of tales from the alte heim

My first grandson received his very own name. Now, it was my turn.

This was a big deal. Becoming a grandparent is a magnificent milestone. What I was called would set the tone for how my grandchildren would relate to me for the rest of my life. I wanted to get it right.

In the olden days, there weren’t many moniker choices.  It was basically Babi or Bubby, depending on the part of Europe you hailed from. I also suspect they had other things on their minds… like being grateful they made it to babihood at all. But in today’s multicultural and longer-living era, we have many options.

I’ve noticed that for some of us who recall our ancient babbis (who were probably all of 50 when we first met them), there’s no way we want to be called any name that resembles theirs. The same goes for being called Grandma, if that’s synonymous with your definition of old. I had a Babi and a Grandma; to me, both names smacked of false teeth in a glass by the bedside.

My mother, unlike me, looked forward to being called Grandma. My father, not so much. Indeed, he spent so much time obsessing about what he should be called that by the time his second grandchild came along, he still had no name (the grandfather, not the child). I solved his problem by simply continuing to refer to him as Abba to my children and thus, Abba he stayed for the remainder of his years.  It did get confusing at times in school when my children talked about their Abba and their Totty….

So what was I going to be called? Like Abba, I couldn’t decide. I’d like to think that my reason for not wishing to be called Babi is more than skin-deep, that it goes beyond the silly need to keep up a youthful image in my grandchildren’s eyes. Because, face it, even if I was 38 at the time of becoming a grandmother, my grandchildren, bless them, would still think of me as elderly.