Megan Ann, 2, and Ashley Marie, 3 and a half

It was at my son Michael's 30th birthday party that he and his wife Rhonda announced that they were expecting their first child. It was a moment frozen in time, one of absolute delight and sheer horror. How could I be a grandmother? I was only 52!

All this "grand" talk made me think about my own folks. My dad was 48 when Michael was born - a 48-year-old kid who loved Corvettes, fast motorcycles and was thrown out of the town park on a regular basis for playing touch football with the high school boys. Dad was certainly not going to be Grandfather - he was going to be Poppy, and that was that.

Thus began the quest for a name for this precious little person to call me. Grandmother was too formal and Grandma was too old. I tried out Grannie Annie and received a resounding "No way" from my family and friends. I then called upon my second-generation Italian immigrant heritage and determined that Nona was a pretty good fit. The more I thought about it, the better it felt. I was Nona when I received a recording of the baby's heartbeat. I was Nona when my son called to tell me the sonogram results. I was really getting into the Nona thing until I found out that Rhonda's mom was to be Nana. Nona and Nana... sounds like a bit out of "Mork and Mindy" (nanu nanu). There was no way I could confuse a child like that. I was back on first base again. And then like a flash it hit me - I wouldn't be Granny, but I could be Gammy. It felt good. And Gammy I am to two perfectly beautiful blue-eyed little girls and a chunky 1-year-old grandson.

I have said before that I am absolutely convinced that grandchildren are God's special gift to us for making it through parenthood. I felt like life had come full circle when my son placed his daughter in my arms for the first time. Those of you who have grandchildren can appreciate what I am saying.

There has been a lot written about grandparents raising their grandchildren. It's more prevalent than we think. It was embarrassing enough to have my husband help me off the floor after crawling around like a kid playing "peek-a-boo" with the babies. I can't imagine going to a parent-teacher conference with my walker, or sending out my sweet little charges to buy Depends and Ensure.

My refrigerator is once again covered with drawings and church school lessons. I eagerly tear open each letter I get hoping for another addition to my art collection. The 500-mile distance between me and the little ones is pretty formidable. Ashley, 3 and a half, is starting soccer. Her dad is coaching. Megan Ann is almost potty trained. Where has the time gone?

Isn't it nice that precious little ones don't notice falling boobs, saggy buns, wrinkles and a less-than-perfect memory? To them you're simply Nana, Grandma, Nona, Grammy, or like me, simply Gammy. It doesn't get much better than that.


Unless she's teapartying with the grandkids, Ann "Gammy" Fogle will gladly respond to comments or suggestions. Reach her at ann@azfinsurance.com.