I’m a YaYa. I became a YaYa when my granddaughter started to talk. I wanted to be acknowledged by her monosyllable vocabulary right along with Mama and Da Da.
I feel like many grandmothers’ in the twenty-first century. I enjoy being one, I just don’t want to be called one.
The word grandma conjures a picture of an old droopy breasted old wrinkley, hobbling, big bottom women. I have no desire to look like that until Gracie’s high school graduation.
I’m a YaYa. I remember my cousin calling our grandma YaYa, but I couldn’t recall why. I knew Gracie wouldn’t say Granny for sometime and YaYa is easy to repeat so I googled to see other names for grandma and found MeeMaw, NiNi, and YES YaYa!
I’m a Ya Ya. I love to hear it echoing through the house.
YaYa, she yells? Yes Gracie, I answer and we begin our precious time together reading Brown ,Brown Bear, or singing,The Wheels on the Bus, as we drive to the park to feed the ducks where she chants around the pond that GEESE ARE MEAN,YAYA.
I believe I could be anything within reason and ability, so being a YaYa would be no problem regardless of really having Greek heritage.
What’s A YaYa? A grandmother who has such love for her first granddaughter that the words make her heart soar and her blood pressure drop!
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