When I was expecting a baby we talked often about what the grandparents would be called. I had two Grandmas - differentiated by their last names and their roles in my life.
My maternal grandmother was the 'country mouse', quite content to rock babies and coddle little children. She baked pies and cakes, and could turn half a pound of hamburger and a potato into a meal fit for a king. This grandmother had three girls and two boys, and was the stereotypical grandmother. She tucked us in to bed at night with a hug and a kiss, and was never afraid to give you a swat if you deserved it. My paternal grandmother was more the 'city mouse' type. She had a full-time job, and lived in an apartment. Her time away from work was spent doing things that she enjoyed. She raised three boys and no girls. The rest of her grandchildren called her Nana, but for us she was simply Grandma.
Once I appeared on the scene as the eldest granddaughter, her own children had been on their own for quite some time. The grandkids had a basket of toys in her apartment, and she kept a fully stocked 'colouring drawer' for when the novelty of the toys wore off. It seems to me that she simply suggested to my parents when discipline was due.
As a child I could always tell which grandmother we were talking about, based on the rest of the conversation. Not that I wasn't close to both grandmothers - but a kid knows. If the discussion was about spending a night at Grandma's house - I knew that meant Mom's mother.
By the time I was nearly five years old, my maternal grandmother lived with us. We had a full-time live-in Grandma! I knew that we were the luckiest kids on the block, maybe even the luckiest kids on the planet! Nobody else had a live-in Grandma that I knew of. My brother and I never had a babysitter, EVER. We had three parents at home - and Grandma came fully equiped with scotch mints in her bedside table, stories to tell, and lots of hugs to share. Who needed a babysitter?
I knew that 'Grandma' was the right name for my mother. I hadn't seen her in grandma mode yet, but I was pretty sure she'd follow in her mother's footsteps.
My father presented another issue altogether. When I was born, I did have two grandfathers. My mom's father was Grandad. Dad's father was Grandpa. Sadly, Grandad passed away before I ever remember his existance. I have lots of pictures of me as a baby with Grandad.
Grandad had a woodshop whereas most people have a garage. He was a 'tinker' of all sorts. It seems to me there wasn't anything he couldn't build or repair. I believe he was a mechanic during the second world war. In his later years his passion was woodworking. I still have the cradle he made for me when I was a little girl, and the child size rocking chair has it's own proud place in my livingroom.
Grandpa, however, was a retired businessman, and a musician. He never came across to me as being particulary handy, but he was always interested in a good conversation or a debate. He worked with his mind more than his hands, I suppose.
My father didn't fit either mold exactly. He was a businessman by trade, and a woodworker by hobby. One afternoon when I asked him what kind of patriarchal title he preferred, he told me that his wish was to be called "Grandfather". I giggled a bit, and envisioned throngs of young children sitting on the floor around his throne, pledging their allegiance to the family and the territory it represented.
Grandfather. Hmmm...all that I could think of was the lyrics to "My Grandfather Clock". The biggest problem was that my parents were not old.
My son came into the world when my parents were still in their 50s. They were old enough to have 'been there and done that' according to whatever experiences I had to share, but they certainly weren't elderly by any stretch of the imagination.
'Grandfather' just didn't work for me.
By the time my son was about a year old my mother had already been designated as Nana.
One afternoon, Dad took Logan outside to have him help with some 'work'. I don't remember the task at hand, but it likely involved pouring copious amounts of water over a flower in the garden. Dad reached out for Logan's hand and said "Come with me", and Logan put his little hand in my father's and exclaimed "Okay Pops!" The rest, as they say, is history.
Boy, was I mistaken to think that the naming of the grandparents was my right.
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