On Being “Nana.”

What’s in a name?

The other day while scrolling Facebook, I landed on a bit by the comedian Sebastian Maniscalco about what we choose to call our grandparents. (If you haven’t heard of him, go google him now.) “Ever hear how people refer to their grandparents?” he asks. He then shares some of the most demeaning, hilarious and ridiculous names imaginable. Raised by conservative, very Italian parents, his grandmother was never going to be anything other than, “Grandma,” and his grandfather was “Grandpa,” because “Imagine calling a man who survived WWII, Peepaw?” Hysterical.

I confess that when it was our turn to become grandparents, my husband and I ran through a few choices ranging from the obvious to the “We can’t possibly be old enough to be Grandma and Grandpa, so we need to find something younger, hipper and more complimentary than what the traditional names bring to mind.” But in the end, after test driving “Mimi,” “G-ma,” and “Grandmere,” (somehow saying it in French made it sound better), I became who I always knew I would be: “Nana,” in remembrance of one of the best grandparents I ever knew and one who epitomized everything I could imagine a grandparent being. My husband finally chose “Papa” grudgingly, after my daughter-in-law, thank God, nixed “Big Daddy.” Seriously… “Big Daddy?” Oy.

Choosing “Nana” left huge shoes to fill, but I knew I wanted to do everything I could to try to be the Nana I knew and loved to my grandkids. Going to my Nana’s house felt like I’d found the golden ticket and was headed to Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory as a VIP. Her home was a place of refuge, a place of unconditional love, a place without judgment and one without rules, or at least, not the same rules we had at home. To this day, certain smells, plants, foods, and sounds bring back those idyllic days at Nana’s house. I even have distinct memories of architectural details of her house, like rounded archways, built in window seats and bookshelves, and unique hardware. I make a habit of naming rooms based on their color, as she did, and have a penchant for wingback chairs, and dining room dry sinks. Still today, I love meandering stone walkways, old, shady, maple trees, hedgerows of rhododendrons, hydrangeas, and ground covering ivy. To me, her house was a magical playground, complete with unique places to immerse myself in my own imaginative play.

But what really made visits so wonderful, was that at Nana’s house, we had different rules. Prior to any visit, we were asked what we wanted to eat for meals and Nana stocked up. The power to choose and to know that even for a tiny slice of time, who you were and what you wanted was the most important thing in an adult’s life was incredible. Of course, we chose frozen pizza and ice cream, peanut butter and fluff sandwiches, and pancakes with tons of syrup. We were also allowed to stay up after bedtime, to sleep in sleeping bags in the hall closet that had transformed into “the castle” that day, and to skip bath time, finally crawling into that sleeping bag in that closet filthy and smelly with Ellio’s frozen pizza and chocolate chip mint ice cream still stuck in my teeth. Those nights allowed me to sleep the sleep of the joyful, well fed and exhausted, all wrapped up in Nana’s love. Even through my college years, I’d receive care packages from Nana with individually bubble wrapped chocolate chip cookies. Somehow, they would arrive just when I felt like I most needed a hug. Amazing.

The day I held my first grandchild, I understood in my bones, for the first time, what everyone who becomes a grandparent soon recognizes. This thing, this experience is completely different. When I had my babies, I was young, and utterly bowled over by a passion and a responsibility I didn’t really understand. Those powerful emotions were also wrapped up in fear of the unknown, the stresses of daily life, getting to preschool on time, cooking meals, and raising our family. And, then, in a blink, my babies were at college and then, unimaginably, my son was standing in front of me with his daughter, and suddenly, I was “Nana” holding a newborn in my arms and feeling emotions not of this world. Part of me felt as though I had been allowed to hit the rewind button and remember what it had been like to hold my first baby, this little girl’s daddy, that first time. So much of her reminded me so much of him and yet, I also knew she was not mine; she belonged to her amazing parents, but would also transform my life. I held her and took in all of the profound joy, and the passion, and felt light.The knowledge that the heavy lifting was not my responsibility left me giddy with the understanding that this was the gift of grandparenthood. I wasn’t “Mom,” I was “Nana,” and that’s a game changer.

As Nana, I get to say, “That’s not my problem,” and “I’d love to have her from noon to five.” I can attend the Halloween parade without having to make, purchase or deal with the costume drama in any way or fight about how much candy she eats at the end of the night. I am there as the heroine with ice cream in hand after she gets her shots at the doctor, without having to be the mean mom who brings her to her torturer. I give candy Kisses for using the potty where there is no such luck at home. And if she wants a few snacks, or cereal for dinner, what possible harm can there be in that?

My house is the sanctuary; the place where hearing yes more than no is standard, where the freezer is always full of ice pops, and pizza, where the closets are castles and the big trees have swings in them. When she is here, she is my world, my only focus, and for that time, I can read book after book after book, and sing song after song after song, because there is nothing more important than that in those moments. I know all too well how that time slips by, and being Nana is the gift of time given back to you in those little faces.

Of course, I will still worry, and my heart will hurt when she is sad, or someone is mean to her. Yes, I am respectful of her parents’ wishes and my aim is not to spoil her or to participate in raising a child no one wants to be around. But her time with me, at my house, is meant to be special, to be free of the daily routines of life. It’s her place to be put first, to do special things and to have a few different rules. There is nothing better than watching her run from the car to my front stoop ready to be swept up into my arms for our day of play. And when my son begs me to move the “snack” drawer up to a level she cannot reach, I say, “At Nana’s house, the snacks are within reach. Put them wherever you like at your house. We have different rules here.” Then I wink at her and she conspiratorially smiles. My Nana would be so proud and honestly, knowing that, is heaven.

So, what’s in a name?

As it turns out, a whole lot.