Two years ago, I thought I had selected the perfect grandma name. I learned that "safta" means grandmother or grandma (formal or casual depending on pronunciation) in Hebrew, and it sounded totally cool. I wanted to be a safta. Once Valerie arrived, we just used grandma, or gramma when my daughter writes texts in Valerie's voice (e.g. "Can gramma come shopping with us this afternoon?") Now that Val has begun naming everything she sees, I just want a name. Any name. She can talk about mommy and daddy. Grandpa is "Pa-pa-pa!" But I have yet to be named at all. She knows the word grandma. She can point to me when we say the word, and if I'm not present and someone refers to me, she smiles and looks at the door, waiting to see me arrive. I dream of the say she calls me by name.
She wasn't here long today, but she and I had a great time being silly while she was present. I planted the bareroot hostas I got a month ago in starter pots while I wait for the front shade bed to be created. Val helped me scoop dirt from the potting soil bag over top of the rhizomes. Then she wiped the stair where she spilled soil with her hands, and then she helped me sweep and held the dustpan. When I watered all the herbs and starter pots, she wiped at the wet porch. She thought that was pretty funny, where grandma was making a mess.
One word I didn't have to pull from her with prompting today was "bubbles." She has been obsessed with the plastic bottles of bubbles I bought on clearance at the end of last summer since the moment she learned what they were. We used to try to drag the word out of her, and she resisted forever. Not anymore. She came carrying two full bottles, begging me for bubbles by name. She laughed and laughed when I gave her what she wanted. Maybe I should just name myself after them. "Call me Bubbles, darling. Everybody does." (If you know, you know.)
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