Abby is my first-born grandchild. She moved to the Lowcountry when she was six months old, so I don't see nearly as much of her as I'd like. She is two and a half years old.
Her Mom Mom and Daddy both have jobs, but Daddy has done most of the care so far since Mom works at night. It's an interesting dynamic when you share parenting stories with your oldest son.
I had a chance to spend a few days with them last week, and it amazes me that she is not shy when we get together. She is -- and I may be just a little biased -- adorable, smart, and loaded with personality. But I digress.
Before Abby was born, there was a lot of discussion surrounding what I wanted to be called by my grandchildren. Her maternal grandmother had already decided on Mimi. My answer was always that it was up to Abby. My daughters-in-law made lots of suggestions. At one point, "Roxy" was in the running. Ultimately, though, I became Grammie. In the meantime, I've had some ideas I wish I'd had then. I am named after my maternal grandmother, Mary, and my father's stepmother, Gladys. Everyone called her Addie. That probably would have been fun, although it might have been confusing for Abby! My family has always called me Mary Glad, which is often shortened to M.G. That would have been a good one as well. My mother's grandmother was called Bamma by all of her grandchildren. I sort of like that, too.
While I was visiting with Abby last weekend, we made a trip to Target. Mom Mom and Abby went one direction with the cart, while I headed for the bicycle horns. (It is, after all, a grandmother's job to torture her adult children whenever possible.) In a few minutes, I heard Abby's little voice from down the aisle. "Gammie, where are you?" The truth is that I was right. It doesn't matter what she calls me, as long as she calls me!
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