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Something Light: Kids on their relatives
So Jacob (ace speller boy) and I were watching American Idol last Tuesday night when a commercial for Tylenol aired. Various close-ups showed the body parts of older people — a weathered elbow, a flexed back, an eye squeezed shut in apparent pain. When the eye shot appeared on the screen in a cascade of wrinkles, Jacob exclaimed, “Ew!”
This drew my gentle rebuke: “Jacob,” I said, “Mema has lots of wrinkles on her face, and you don’t say ‘ew!’ about her.”
The backstory on this is that Jacob, 13, is just crazy about his great-grandmother, Millie, a short, round Southern lady of 85. We all call her “Mema,” which is pronounced “Meemaw.”
To my rebuke Jacob replied, “Well, I don’t say ‘ew’ about Mema because Mema is the best thing since sliced bread!”
Then he rethought his statement and after a half-beat pause added, “But she’s been around so long that I should have said, ‘Sliced bread is the best thing since Mema!’”
Of course, I immediately called Mema who got a great big chuckle out of that and declared Jacob “a stinker.”
What do the kids in your family say about their relatives?
back to top31 Comments to “Something Light: Kids on their relatives”
I’d be interested in knowing that too. But I think their experiences with us, and the other grandparents, were positive.
The pool,
The South of the Border
King’s “Diminium”
The Beach
The Mountains
Disney
The Park
Making muffins
etc.
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I have such wonderful memories – especially of my mom’s parents.
Our son saw alot of both sets of his grandparents and got along well with both of his grandmothers but seemed especially close to my husband’s mom. The grandfathers were there but not as hands on or as involved.
Now with our grandchildren, my husband is very involved with me and with our two G’s and I think he’s my grandson’s favorite person. We’re the only grandparents the kids have. Their mother’s mom died 3 years ago and her dad has been an absent father to her and of course now doesn’t even know his own grandchildren.
I take my grandchildren to see my parents and while Vincent enjoys visiting them, Sydney tells me “I don’t like Pap.” We’re not sure why except he teases (good naturedly) a lot and she’s kind of “touchy.”
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When my husband took a trip back to his home town for his Grandmother’s birthday he invited his then teenage niece Candace to ride back to his mom’s house with us. On the way he took a wrong turn and he deiced he’s like to drive through all his old haunts and show his niece where he and her dad had grown up. We drove through the old neighborhood, past the elementary school and down t the creek where the used to play.
When we got back to the house, my husband said “Sorry we’re late we got a little lost.”
“Where?’ my Mother in law asked.
“In the sixties.” Candace answered.
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34 years ago my sister said to her daughter age 3, “We’re going to go see Grandmother and Grandaddy next week.” My niece replied, “Which one? The beautiful Grandmother?”
Too this day, my Mother is referred to as the beautiful Grandmother. She’s 83 years young and full of life!
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When my niece was four years old, her father’s mother passed away. She was at her grandmother’s funeral, but while she was there she was walking around assessing all the grandmotherly ladies in attendance. It sees that she was actually shopping for a new Grandma, because she said to one woman, “You look like you’d make a nice Grandma. I need a new one. Will you be my new Grandma?” This child is now 8 and she still says some of the darndest things.
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My father in law died 4 years ago and was cremated. For a long time my mother in law kept him in a box on her night stand (you would just have to know her). One day not too long after he died Chloe asked Nana what was in the box. Nana said Pop. Chloe asked if she could see him and Nana said no. Why? Because he’ll get out and make a mess?
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Hmmmm…. I don’t want to be too much of a wet blanket here, but there seems to be a trend developing where, rather than being called “grandma” and “grandpa”, grandparents just accept whatever nickname the grandchildren come up with as toddlers. “Pop-pop” “Meemaw”, “Gamma”, etc. Seems harmless, but I wonder if it’s another rung down the long ladder of child indulgence. Kids aren’t expected to learn titles.
It wouldn’t bother me so much if I didn’t see a headstone recently in a national cemetery for veterans where, underneath “Msgt”, “honored father” and “loving husband” was “Pop-Pop”. Just kills the dignity.
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I know a lady who very much wanted to be a grandma. When her first grandchild was born he named her “Kitty” being the indulgent grandmother she intended to be she fell in love with the name. Her biological grandchildren all call her Kitty. Those “other” grandchildren she has picked up along the way (including mine) call her “Grandma Ruth”.
My own childish indulgence is that my niece and nephew call me Dee. Nowhere in any of my legal names does the letter D appear. I also liked it when my nephew was very small and called me MyKim. He did that until his sister started talking and named me Dee.
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My mom’s grandchildren call her memaw. I’m never sure how to spell it on cards from my little one.
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Speaking of funerals and children: A long time ago, when our children were actually children, my grandmother died after a long illness.
There was the usual open casket ‘viewing’ at the funeral home, in which the corpse is laid out in dubious finery for the scrutiny of a long murmuring, shuffling line of people, some of whom are genuinely in mourning, others nervously curious, most simply grimly resigned to the social necessity of showing up and performing their terminal duty to the departed.
This ‘viewing’ (the name itself has elements of the absurd in the context of death) has always seemed a somewhat odd and overtly morbid custom to me.
Anyway, my wife and I arrived at the funeral home with the relevant children (those whom we considered ‘old enough’ to participate in this somber rite). My son was maybe five, my daughter about three. It was their first funeral, at least in which they were expected to be more or less aware – and respectful – of their surroundings.
There is a certain somber dignity to a funeral home; everybody speaks in hushed tones, like they were in a kind of library where the Head Librarian is known to be particularly vigilant and hence greatly to be feared (which I think may be true, actually, in a way.)
Even the big burly sun-burned men with work-worn hands and still faintly smelling (beneath rivers of deodorant and shaving lotion) like barns and hay and cattle stand awkwardly, visibly uneasy with the unaccustomed feel of the fabric of dress suits and shiny street shoes, instead of overalls and work boots. They are use to bellowing at bulls, shouting over the roar of heavy machinery; in this place they stand strangely mute and meek, looking as miserable as wallflowers at a dance.
The women seem strangely more at ease (why is this?); they murmur faintly, always murmuring, though almost inaudibly, and there is a great deal of silent hugging. But overall, there is an oppressive sort of atmosphere in a funeral home at a viewing, and the odor of death, which in such a place is the scent of flowers and perfume and candles flickering in alcoves.
The funeral home people are hard to separate from the mourners – you can never be sure if the sad-eyed whispering gentleman at the door in the three-piece suit is an employee of the funeral home, or is actually some long-lost third cousin who has crawled out of the woodwork for the funeral, whom you are supposed to somehow remember.
So we got in line and moved slowly and inexorably forward toward the casket. My daughter was a petite little tyke and I could easily carry her in my right arm, with her arms fastened tightly around my neck. My son clutched my left hand very tightly.
Both of them were extremely nervous and yet quite naturally curious; a parent can tell such things, you know. Their eyes were as big as saucers and my son kept craning his neck and straining to see if he could see past the people to the coffin. The closer we got, the tighter my daughter clutched my neck and the more fiercely my son squeezed my hand; it is a wonder I was not suffocated and did not suffer broken bones in my hand.
Well, finally, we were there. The body of my grandmother was in the classic coffin pose and dressed to the hilt, of course, with the top half of the coffin open and her visible FROM THE WAIST UP ONLY. This last fact, that she was visible ONLY from the waist up, was of utterly no significance to ME at the moment.
For a long time, my son and my daughter stared fixedly at her and then I could see and feel them both visibly relax – there is something utterly unreal about a corpse, gray with make-up, sanitized and dolled up, even (and maybe especially) a loved one – we instinctively know that is not really them. There is something artificial about it, no matter how everyone tries to pretend differently.
At this critical point, the funeral home, always quiet anyway, became utterly quiet for whatever reason – perhaps the sight of the father (me) and his two children standing in reverence and grief before the coffin caught people’s eyes. The murmuring of women died away and the creak of men’s shoes stopped.
My son then turned to me and said in a very loud voice that carried to every last corner of the funeral home and to every ear there:
“Hey, Dad, what did they do with her LEGS?”
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Drill – I love it! My friend’s son asked the same question many years ago!
My son Micah notices now when people are “balt” (bald to you and I) since his Grandpa is “balt”. He pointed out a “balt” gentleman in front of us in church on Sunday. My daughter is 2 and even she noticed Grandpa is bald! She pointed to his picture a few weeks ago and said (she doesn’t say much) “hair”! Evidently, that is the defining feature of Grandpa! She also says “papa” to every older man that she sees – at church, on tv, in pics – they are all “papa” to her.
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Drill,et. al. My son and his family attended a funeral when one of my aunts died. I would have left the children at home, but they brought them to the funeral home. The kids were nice, but Chuck tried, in vain, to keep them from running. I explained to him that at that age, the way to get from one place to another was to run.
But, Mary kept asking, “Who lives here?”, “Nobody”,
“Who lives here?” “Nobody”
half a dozen times. Then
“Who lives here?” “Nobody”
“Then why do they call it a home?”
We had to explain it to Mary.
That was typical of Mary, BTW.
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I understand that many children down south use the term meemaw. Perhaps someone could let us know if that is what is done in your area of the country. I would suppose Grandmother and Grandfather would be the formal title. After that, I’m not sure it matters. Most of my grandchildren refer to me as Gramma or Grampa and then our first names may be used. One grandson calls one grandfather, Grampa Red, because he is the only one with red hair. His grandpa doesn’t mind at all.
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Wow sorry. I didn’t intend to turn this into a funeral story thread.
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It wasn’t long ago that all married women would address their own husbands as Mr. so and so. I see no need to have that formality when addressing my husband. I see no reason why children should address grandparents in a formal fashion. The relationship is, hopefully, much more relaxed than that. Of course, actual disrespect is another thing. Nicknames for anyone should not be allowed, if they are disrespectful.
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My husband’s grandmother’s name is Yvonne, but one of the grandkids couldn’t pronounce it and called her Yonie. She liked it so well that she is known as Yonie to one and all. She would never want to be called Grandma let alone Great-Grandma. Yes, she’s 92, but doesn’t particularly want to be reminded of her age every time a great-grandchild speaks to her. (Though one result of that is that my 8-year-old was very surprised, on our latest visit to see her, to find out that she is his great-grandmother. All his grandparents have died, so I guess it didn’t occur to him that he could have a great-grandparent still alive.)
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John M:
My kids call my folks “MomMom” and “PopPop” because that is what they requested to be called. Dad came from Norwegian extraction where “Mor Mor” and “Far Far” were the norm (Mother’s mother and Father’s father) so it was a nod to his heritage.
My husbands mother asked to be called Granny because her mother was (and is at 93) still living and was the established “Grandma” in the family.
We have respected our parents by conceding to their wishes.
I have also been thrilled to find an occasional birthday or Father’s Day card for “PopPop”.
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My four year old nephew, at a family get together (with his very deep throaty voice)–”I’m sick of huggin’ ole people!”
8*)
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A friend of mine was about 92 when her husband of 69-going-on-70 years died. At the funeral, a little boy asked her son, “Will she get married again?” The new widow said that was the best compliment she’d heard in years.
When Mom married again a few years after Dad’s death, to a family friend, my older brothers knew our new “stepfather” (they’d grown up near him and his wife, and one of the other family’s children was named for my mom). They’d called the couple “Aunt –” and “Uncle –.” But we younger kids had never met the couple, and debated what to call our new stepfather. We were all adults, so he wouldn’t really be a father figure. We couldn’t call him “Dad” since that name was taken, or “Father,” since he wasn’t. We didn’t want to call him by his first name. We finally settled on “Pop,” which seemed affectionate and familial, yet different.
After Pop died, Mom told my sister and me that he’d never gotten used to us calling him “Pop.” He’d say, “That’s what kids call old men.” That made us sad. “Why didn’t you tell him we meant it affectionately, like ‘Papa’?” my sister asked Mom. “Oh, I never thought of that.”
It was a short marriage; Pop was past 80 when they married, and only lived about two more years. Still, he was sweet. When I went for a week to be with Mom after she had a heart attack, Pop’s relief at my arrival in her hospital room was visible; he was no longer alone. He gave me their bedroom (which Mom wouldn’t have done) and slept on the couch. One night he kissed me on the forehead and said, “Love ya.” The most fatherly bedtime I ever had from anyone. So I hope it was really sort of OK with him that we called him Pop (and never realized he didn’t like it).
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My Mother-in-law insisted on being called Mam-maw. I couldn’t stand it! Our baby was almost walking before I was able to say that word. It brings to mind shoeless uneducated people living in a shack on the side of a hill with an outhouse. For me to say, “go to your Grandmother,” was very insulting to her, so I evidentially decided it wasn’t worth a fight. 24 years later — I still don’t like it!
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Deb – we have friends whose children called their grandmother Mam-maw. The reason is because when the oldest child was learning to talk, she could not say “Grandma.” She could, however say, “Mam-maw,” and the name stuck.
We had a similar situation in our family. My daughter and her cousin Emily are 4 months apart in age. When they were learning each other’s names, my daughter called her cousin “Memmy.” At least to us “Mem” has become a term of endearment, and that’s what we call her and she doesn’t mind.
My husband’s parents are Oma and Opa – a nod to his family’s German heritage.
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AKmom:
Since I get to choose, when I’m a grandparent, they can call me “Grandfather”, “Sensei” or “Master”. As in “May I fetch your slippers, Master?”
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I miss my Granny very much. I miss my Mom too. My kid and funture grand kids can call me anything they want and I can chose to answer. But I will live forever so they can never miss me – even if they want to
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Oh Cheryl what a beautiful story.
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To differentiate between our grandmothers, my sister and I would call them Grandma Smith and Grandma Thompson. My maternal grandmother signed cards as “Grandma Thompson”; my paternal grandparents signed “Grandpa and Grandma Smith”. Talking to them, they were usually just Grandpa or Grandma (although I think sometimes we did say “Grandma Thompson” in conversation with her).
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I called mine grandma and grandpa and thought that was the only way so my kids called theirs that as well. Then I met some southerners and learned that Granny was a term of endearment. I wanted to be called Granny. I am oma, I am not German or have any known Germans in my background. That’s okay.
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My husband’s father always said we could call him anything, except late to dinner. Like many of his jokes, that one’s been around a long time. But he never saw that as a reason not to keep it going.
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Pop is what we call my uncle across the street. My son doesn’t have a real grandpa, so Pop will have to do. He’s a bit of character, though. He got a Harley for his 68th birthday.
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Yesterday my 16 year-old said about my parents: “I can tell my kids that my grandparents grew up without TV!” I’m always reminding him that when I was his age I could only choose between 4 channels and had to get off the couch and walk to the TV to switch.
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I’ve heard of parents’ mothers referred to as Grandmom (my parents insisted we use that title to our grandmothers), Gigi (my cousin’s attempt at “Grandmom), Grandma, Nana, Nanny, and Bopche (sp? my friend is of Polish descent–sorry, Joanne!) Why do greeting cards insist that one’s only choices are between Grandma and Grandmother? (I have NEVER heard of a grandmother referred to as “Grandmother”)
On a personal note, while our oldest daughter and her husband labored for nine months with a name for their firstborn, I tried out different Granny names for myself. I hadn’t decided by the time my sweet Lily Rain arrived so I asked my younger daughter for help. Now when I finally get to visit Lily– our first grandchild, a thousand miles away– I look forward to telling her “I’m Mommom”!
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#30 “Why do greeting cards insist that one’s only choices are between Grandma and Grandmother?”
I would guess it is because there would not be enough of a market for those who call her Nana, Nanny, etc. She would understand that it refers to the relationship, not the name/title. It would be similar to the cards we receive from my husband’s grandmother, which say “Happy Birthday, Grandson!” even though of course that’s not what she calls him.
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