WHAT’S IN A NAME?

I can remember the months of debate, contemplation, indecision, consultation, and angst that went into the selection of a name for my first baby.  Everyone on both sides of our burgeoning family had an opinion, recollection, or historical [hysterical?] perspective.  There was an axe to grind, a curse to avoid, an ancestor to honor, or a simple desire for alliteration [Amanda Alt].

In those days it was “pot luck” on the sex of the babe, so we needed to be ready for either possibility.  The first time around, I was actually soliciting input.  In responding to my father-in-law’s query about a possible boy’s name, I tried to dodge the bullet.  He was Richard Jr., my husband was Richard III, and I knew I didn’t want to beget a dynasty.  Silence fell over the family reunion as they awaited my answer.  As an attempted diversion, I remarked as lightly as I could, “All I know is that we won’t name him Walter!”  The idea of a “Walt Alt” had seemed so hysterically funny to me…not so much to anyone else.  Hushed disbelief.  No laugher.  Apparently no one had told me about their famous Uncle Walter Alt!  

That was only the first round of four nomenclature deliberations as our little family eventually swelled to six!

Once they were all born, named, and launched I thought I was done with naming concerns.

Fast forward two decades.  In facing the prospect of welcoming the

first grandchild to the fold, I found myself facing that naming conundrum again.  But this time I was selecting my own new label.  How strange it was to find myself in the time warp of third generation name picking.  Determined not to wear the title of Granny or something similar, I tried on and adopted my moniker of “Nani.”  I told myself and anyone who would listen that I wasn’t vain.  I just didn’t want to appear either regal or dowdy [read: old?]. 

Photo by Gil Feliciano

Hummmm.  That had a familiar ring to it.  Somewhere around the arrival of my third “grand,” I recalled with some chagrin how offended I had been by my mother-in-law’s pronouncement some twenty years before.  I had felt I was bestowing upon her the most precious gift in the world - a grandchild - and asked how she felt about becoming a grandmother.  I vividly recall her saying emphatically that she was, “too young to be called Grandma, so your baby may call me Oma!” [German version - same concept].

It’s too late for me to apologize to “Oma” for my reaction to what had seemed like a heartless declaration of disinterest in her new granddaughter.  Now I understand her reticence to enter this next phase of her life.  She had no way of knowing the glory and delight that were awaiting her - whatever her title.  She didn’t realize that the descriptor of grandmother wasn’t an indication of advancing years, but of increasing honor and trust and more love than she’d ever known!

As my own Pennsylvania Dutch grandmother humbly remarked regarding her late-in-life discoveries: “Too soon, too old.  Too late, too smart.” 

Apparently that applies to us all!

Christie Clarke