When I first shared the news of my daughter’s pregnancy, I was immediately asked, “Do you have a grandmother name? Apparently, other people have planned theirs out well in advance. My grandson’s other grandmother did, and she hasn’t met him yet (she will soon).
I’ve fed him, changed him, sung to him, held him, hugged him, all the while telling him “Gran’s got you.” Or “Shhh. Nana’s here.” Nan, Gram, I hold him, hoping for some mental inspiration on what this sweet little boy would like to spend his life calling me. It’s not coming.
I could join a long line of Nanas. My mother-in-law is a sweet warm Nana. She has no qualms about me using the title, even if I do because she is still alive. Not naming for live people is a Jewish thing, and she isn’t Jewish. Her mother was Nana as well. So was my grandmother, leading my children to call her Nana Sabiha, to differentiate two Nanas. Sabiha’s mother-in-law was my mother’s favorite grandmother, Nana Farha.
I’m not sure I could be either of the Nanas I knew. I think of them as warm laps and generous hugs. My arms aren’t big enough. I don’t even weigh 100 pounds. My own grandmother crossed the Indian Ocean with four girls during a war, traveling by night. Nana Farha died in a refugee camp in Israel, when Mizrahi Jews were sent to camps while Ashknazis escaping Europe were given housing. My mother in law raised four children while being a military wife, and later was a founder of her church, always looking out for the needy. I’m not these people.
I don’t know a single Gran. I could invent the role myself. Gran could be a pastry chef who does Tai Chi, sells artwork, goes running sometimes. Gran could grow an organic garden and have 17 chickens. Gran makes up bedtime stories, and sometimes has purple streaks in her long thick hair.
But with a new baby asleep on my chest, I’m thinking I could accept the mantle of Nana. All it takes strong loving arms around a little one, keeping him safe and secure.
Comments