A few months ago I found myself flying home from Washington D.C. with a cell phone full of baby pictures of my week-old grandson, Flynn, and a brand new title of "Grandmother."  Or maybe Nana, Mimi, Baba, Grams, Gigi, or one of the other non-traditional grandmother names that seem to be preferred these days. 

Flynn's not talking yet, so my moniker's still up in the air.  There was a time when I had a strong opinion about it--not so much about what he'd call me, but with some pretty set notions about what I didn't want to be called.

One of my own grandmothers was called "Ma," a name she got from her first (and apparantly syllable-challenged) grandchild and that was handed down to the rest of us as we came along.  It was the only name I ever called her for 25 years, and it never crossed my mind that she might have preferred something different--something a little more sophisticated or modern.  "Ma" was who she was.  It was only as an adult that it began to sound a little Hatfield and McCoy to me. Backwoods, hillbillyish. It might have been right for her, but it wasn't right for me. I definitely didn't want to be a "Ma."

Nor did I want to be a "Granny," the name given by my cousins to their other grandmother.  This just sounded way too frumpy, conjuring up a stout, gray haired, farm lady, wearing a faded apron around her waist while wringing the necks of chickens.  Actually, it sounded almost exactly like who Granny was.

But not like who I am.  I'm a modern grandmother just like my contemporaries.  We don't  have white hair-- and won't--unless we choose to.  Even then, we'll probably call it platinum.  We still shop at the Gap, cook with olive oil instead of lard, wear t-shirts and jeans instead of jersey dresses, and buy our chickens precut and mainly deboned.

And, although we anxiously look forward to grandkids, we cringe a little at the thought of actually being grandmothers and being called something as old-fashioned as grandma, or granny, or ma.

Flynn made a big impression on me.  As soon as I held him that first day in the hospital, I knew I'd never forget that face. At least until the next day when I saw him in the nursery with five other swaddled babies, three of whom also had dark hair and big eyes, and two of those who shared his blue name plate.  I was too far away to read names, so ended up waving to them all, just in case.

It took the next ten days to get to know him. He's the one that likes the orange pacifier better than the green one, and who puts his whole fist in his mouth when the orange one isn't near at hand.  He makes cute little noises and funny little faces, wrinkling his forehead and scrunching his mouth into dozens of different pouts and the occassional grin. Maybe not all that different from those other babies in the nursery, except that his face is firmly imprinted on my heart. I'd recognize him anywhere.

I'm more worried about him recognizing me.  I left knowing that I wouldn't see him again for another month, and that after that he'd be flying off to Africa for two years and then to some other foreign country as his parents traverse the world with their careers in the foreign service.

Not exactly the relationship I had with Ma, who lived a quick two minute bike ride away and cooked Sunday dinner for the entire extended family every single week.  And not like the relationship my cousins had with Granny, who lived just a short walk away down a country lane, where a loud yell over empty corn fields called them home. 

My relationship with Flynn will be a more modern one, with a lot of our future face time occurring over Skype instead of across a dinner table piled high with fried chicken and homemade noodles.

Flynn and I practiced his "oohs" and "aahs" during my visit, but he's not going to be calling me anything for a while.  The ball's in my court, and I'm a little surprised to find myself leaning towards the rather old-fashioned "Grandma."  I think it's because I'd like to bring something a little traditional into this modern relationship.  But I'm not totally committed.   

I'm pretty sure that if I'm ever on Skype and hear a "Ma!" floating across cyberspace, I'll change my mind.

 "I'm right here Flynn."