My beautiful daughter Curly Girl is about to give birth. She’s 24 years old and – in my mind – too young to be responsible for anything bigger than a gerbil, but no one asked my opinion.

Truthfully, she is a responsible person, and she and the husband are greatly looking forward to the event. I’m the one who’s terrified.

I just know so little about babies. I took care of some as a teenage babysitter, but that was literally 50 years ago. Half a century. Wow. Let’s not go there.

The thought of being even briefly responsible for one of these miniature humans, who can’t even discuss the latest shows on Netflix, is giving me heart palpitations.

This is why I adopted older kids. My son was 5 and my daughter 3 when they came to live with me and became my children forever. I never even changed a diaper. I think maybe I know which end to put it on – the one that’s not screaming – but the rest is all a blur.

This impending baby, currently being manufactured inside my daughter, is a boy, which makes me even more nervous.

All I know about boy babies is that you have to be careful when you diaper them, or they will squirt urine in your face. Great. Looking forward to that.

My daughter has already put the kibosh on my chosen name that I planned to have my grandchild call me.

For some reason, she doesn’t think Your Royal Highness is satisfactory. I think it sounds hot diggety good.

What this means is that I quickly have to come up with a new name for the baby to call me, because I’m sure he pops out of the womb calling my name, right?

I know many of you love the tried-and-true “Grandma.” And I had a nice grandma who I loved. But she had white hair and tatted lace and wore house dresses most of the time. On the rare occasions she went anywhere, she drove her big Plymouth that her mechanic husband had reconditioned for her.

As you know, that’s just not me. I can’t drive a Plymouth. I don’t know how to tat lace. And I just can’t deal with the whole gray hair thing.

I had gray hair briefly after it grew back in the wake of my chemotherapy. I don’t understand how my hair was red when it fell out, and then turned gray when it grew back in. It was obviously some sort of Communist plot to make me look old.

Yes, I have lots of friends who love their gray hair. But it just makes me feel like Granny Clampett. So, now, I pay an absurd amount of money to have it colored red every six weeks. And all is right with the world.

Anyway, I digress. For the same reason I pay too much money to have my hair colored, I don’t want to be called Grandma. Since my daughter has nixed my best idea, I’ve been poring over lists trying to find an alternative.

Here are some I’ve found:

Marmee. Yes, I loved “Little Women.” But, no.
Abuela. This is grandmother in Spanish and, while I like it, it has too many syllables.
Babushka. I would definitely feel like an old lady hunched over in a scarf and overcoat with this name, which is grandma in Russian.
Bunny. This seems to be on several lists of popular grandmother names, but I don’t eat that many carrots.
Nonna. My friend’s mother is Italian, so this is what her daughter calls her. It’s cute, but I don’t want to be accused of cultural appropriation.
Tutu. My kids called our friend Rose Marie this since she had lived in Hawaii and filled in occasionally as their grandma.
Mimi. This one has been claimed by the other grandmother.
Lola. This is cute and a popular name from the Philippines. I don’t know if I’m a Lola or not, though. Pretty sure I couldn’t get a job as a showgirl at the Copacabana if I were the last woman on earth.
Nanny. I guess people like this one, but I don’t want to be mistaken for a female goat or Mary Poppins.
Meemaw. This is popular in the South, but it sounds too much like Hee Haw, which in case you’ve forgotten was a corny country rip-off of Laugh-In. It may be a contender for the corniest show of all time, although it ran for 23 seasons. And my father never missed it.
Gigi. It’s a cute name and easy for a baby to say; however, it reminds me of a snotty girl I knew in grade school who was always making fun of my homemade clothes.
Granny. (See above).

Right now, I’m leaning toward “Nana,” which is cute, alliterative and easy for a baby to say. It also does have a provenance as a name for grandmothers, so it’s somewhat recognizable.

Some people have told me that it doesn’t matter which name I pick because the baby will call me whatever it wants, and apparently somehow my heart will melt and I will go along with it.

I’m not familiar with this heart-melting scenario, so we shall see. Both of my kids came pre-assembled, so I never had that moment of looking at them and falling in love.

When they moved into my house, on Aug. 2, 2002, I was eager and ecstatically happy, but it wasn’t love at first sight. It took a little while to fall in love with them, which I realized one day not long afterward when it occurred to me that I’d throw myself in front of a bus for either one.

So we’ll see what happens when I become a Nana. Or a Tutu. Or Her Royal Highness. I’m still pushing for that one.

Related links

Frumpy Mom: Sometimes life still holds a few surprises
Frumpy Mom: Finally, a reason to celebrate
Frumpy Middle-aged Mom: We made it through the wedding. And no one died.
adoption, foster, children, Texas
Embarrassing your kids for fun and profit

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