Different roles create crisis

I’ve been having an identity crisis lately. On our last trip to see the grandkids, Jacob, the newly turned three-year-old, insisted on calling me Grandpa. Yeah, you read that right. Grandpa.
The last time we visited, he called me, “Dranma,” and the time before that he called me what sounded like a cross between Nana and Grandma. But as of a few weeks ago, I was Grandpa. Granddaughter Emma tried to correct him by very carefully pronouncing, “Grand-MA,” but Jacob would just giggle. No amount of coaxing by any of the older children would get him to call me Grandma instead of Grandpa. My husband is known as Poppa, not Papa, but Poppa.
My official title, according to my daughter, is “Grandma, far, far away.” So when Jacob wasn’t calling me Grandpa, he called me “far, far, ‘way.” Heaven only knows what he will call me the next time we see him. No matter what he calls me, I will still be the one who helps bake gingerbread men, tells stories of the three little pigs and sends books from far, far away.
We all have multiple roles in life. Some people know me as Tom’s wife. Some know me as Doris’ daughter or Beth’s mom. I am mom-in-law to one, sister-in-law to several. I am cousin to some and aunt to others. One of my favorite names is Sis or Sissy, even though my brothers usually call me Diane. For the record I prefer Diana to Diane but after all these years it is not worth the hassle to correct people.
I have been known by what I did for a living; as in the girl behind the counter at the donut shop, sandwich maker at the Upper Krust, office girl at Borden’s Dairy, lab tech for the city or whatever.
In the springtime I am known as the lady with the tulips even though this spring was a bust for tulips. Some identify me as the one with the deep purple lilac they covet. I refer to my home as, “the white house with all the flowers.” I call it that when the only things blooming are commonly known as weeds and on the rare occasions when the blossoms are dripping off the many plants I have purchased over the years.
Interestingly enough, I seldom identify myself the way others identify me. Yes, I am mother, grandmother, daughter and sister. I have been Tom’s wife for thirty-three years and can no longer tell where he leaves off and I begin. The experiences I have gathered from the jobs I have held are a part of me.
Yet, the face I present to the world is not the insecure wacko who lives inside my head. The face I see in the mirror is different from the one you see.
I think that many of us put on a mask for the rest of the world. We try to be the person we think someone else wants us to be. We hide the insecure wacko who resides deep inside the attic of our minds.
It reminds me of Richard. He was our friend. We hadn’t heard from him for several years as our lives had diverged. Towards the end of his life he would call us in the middle of the night. That was when the scared, insecure little boy who lived inside him would reach out for reassurance. I would always respond by telling him what time it was, as in, ”It’s two o’clock in the morning!” Then I would listen as he told me all the regrets he had and how scared he really was. He didn’t live long enough to ever be called, “Grandpa.” I haven’t thought of him in years.
I enjoy trying to be all the different people that others think I am. It is more fun being, ”Grandpa,” than I ever imagined it could be. It is certainly more fun than being the person I think I am. Then again, perhaps I really am the person I pretend to be. As Kurt Vonnegut said, “Be careful what you pretend to be because you are what you pretend to be.” Maybe I really am Grandpa. Now there’s something to think about.

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