Most of us put up with the name we were given at birth, whether we like it or not. Which means, in a few years’ time, there will be a glut of Olivers and Olivias in our primary schools, for according to a recent Office for National Statistics report, those two names remain the most popular choices for new parents.
Tough if you are a Nigel — there were only 11 boys given that name in 2017 — and a mere 70 babies were given my name. I guess there is not much joy in being called Joy any more.
But to one special person I have an entirely different moniker — one I chose for myself. I’m “Grandma”. Despite all its connotations of grey hair, knitting and rocking chairs, I picked grandma over a limited number of other options when it came to deciding what my grandson would call me.
I thought long and hard about how I should be addressed. Bubbe (booba? bubba? I couldn’t even spell it, let alone contemplate being called it) sounds horrendously ancient. On my dining room windowsill there is a small photograph of an elderly couple, staring seriously at the camera. From their clothes and demeanour, I suspect it was taken in the early years of the last century. The bearded man with a large black kippah —my great-great-grandfather — looks about 80; his wife, in a long dark dress and sheitl, does not look much younger. Now that’s a bubbe and zeida.
