Call grandma, grandpa oma and opa
The “moe-maws” and “boe-paws” of our community were out in force last week.
Thanksgiving week, frankly, resembled a buffalo charge.
My wife, Hedy, and I have eight grandchildren. The eldest is 17, and the youngest 3. The ones at either end of the spectrum are boys. The six girls occupy the vast middle, but take a backseat to no one.
To be honest, the girls, with their obvious intellect and charm, take charge of “Big Cuz” and “Li’l Cuz,” and hold the reins of power in our family.
Hedy grew up in Holland. Our three daughters — since they were wee little ones — have referred to Hedy’s mother and father by the accepted Dutch grandparent nomenclature: oma and opa. That’s also the convention in Germany and parts of Belgium.
Our daughters’ children now refer to Hedy and me by the same taxonomy. That practice began 17 years ago with our first grandchild, Ethan. Our middle daughter, Jade (Ethan’s mother), wanted things that way.
“I’ve always felt it special to call my grandparents oma and opa,” Jade told me recently. “Those titles made them unique in my eyes. None of my friends had an oma or opa. I wanted my [four] kids to have that same special experience.”
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Our youngest grandchild, Judah, couldn’t properly pronounce oma and opa when he was a year old, so he called us “moe-maw” and “boe-paw.” The names stuck. Hedy and I (malleable by nature) are captive to an endearing lisp.
Four of our grandchildren live in Orange County, the other four in North Carolina. We were in the Tar Heel State a couple of weeks back to celebrate an early Thanksgiving with them. They speak a hybrid of the King’s English mixed with a Southern drawl (think Helena Bonham Carter meets Alison Krauss).
Our West Coasters speak English with a surfer-dude lilt. The only exception to that is Judah who, at 3, has fashioned his own dialect. Hence, to Judah, we’re moe-maw and boe-paw.
The purpose of this convoluted introduction is to describe what Hedy and I experienced last week.
Remember when the annual Thanksgiving school holiday was Thursday and Friday? Period. Now, it’s not even referenced as the Thanksgiving holiday, and it runs Saturday through the following Sunday. Nine days!
That, by the way, brings up a pet peeve of mine. Seems like Thanksgiving — a great holiday! — has become lost in a chaotic vortex. When I was growing up in Newport-Mesa, Thanksgiving was the Pilgrims and Native Americans sharing the bounty of a beneficent land; turkey and dressing (not stuffing) heaped on an overflowing dining room table; giblet gravy, mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce; and Nebraska battling Oklahoma in college football (sadly, they don’t even play each other anymore!).
This year, the holiday was barely acknowledged. Black Friday — and I’m not exactly sure what that is — is now the “big dog” this time of year. And we glide from Halloween directly into Christmas. No more “Come, ye thankful people, come, raise the song of harvest home.” We’ve lost something.
Anyway, back to moe-maws and boe-paws:
The phenomenon that Hedy and I witnessed last week I’ve taken to calling: “School’s Out But Parents Still Must Work.”
The additional three “vacation” days that Orange County school districts allot youngsters at Thanksgiving presents parents with a conundrum.
What to do with their youngsters while working?
Enter … grandma and grandpa.
There we — Baby Boomers — were in droves last week, prowling the malls with our progeny in tow; visiting Santa; seeing a movie; scarfing burgers and fries at Ruby’s; and stopping by the frozen yogurt shop, multiple times.
I saw tons of excited children with their moe-maws and boe-paws. There were a slew of us 60- and 70-somethings walking hand in hand with our 4-, 6- and 8-year-old grandchildren.
And the kids looked no worse for the wear. In fact, they seemed rather pleased.
I loved it. But, when 5 p.m. rolled around each day, this boe-paw was ready for a nap.
Hope your Thanksgiving was blessed!
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JIM CARNETT lives in Costa Mesa. His column runs Tuesdays.