The weekend: my nephew continues to call me Nana

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Madeleine Chapman reflects on the week it was.

There is no adult in the world that can cut it to the core as clean as a small child. My involuntary killer is my two -year -old nephew, who with a single repeated word forced me to reevaluate my hair, my clothes and my life.

The word? Nana.

My sister (and therefore nephew) lives 10 minutes from me and I see them approximately once a week. My mother (his Nana) lives on a seven -hour trip and therefore they see each other every few months. And yet, whenever my nephew sees me, or wants to refer to me after I said goodbye, he calls me Nana.

“No, this is crazy aunt,” my sister will say gently. “Can you say crazy?” He will look at her, look at me and say nothing. Until the next time he calls me and I’m Nana again.

Trust me when I say that I to do Find funny and assume me to refer to myself as Nana sometimes just to be consistent. But when someone is called Nana, although he is not 70 (his true age of Nana), one must examine what kind of energy and an appearance is presenting to the impressable young people of the world.

If I’m being very honest, I’ve been old all my life, then it’s not really a surprise that since I have a hair similar to my mother, my nephew made us a person. But it is always shocking to be remembered the age and stage.

I’ve been crazy aunt since I was 12, so I always felt like a very young aunt. Almost two decades and 15 nieces and nephews later, I only recently realized that I am a regular aunt. And now, having lived with this realization for three whole months, I am suddenly a very young Nana.

This week I read a lot of on -line comments about how reasonably healthy person would be able to pass the police fitness test. I looked at the requirements and instantly knew that I failed everywhere. Five years ago, I would need a few weeks to cool off, but it could have passed. Today? Give it at least six months and you will have one maybe.

When I had been watching Gilmore Girls recently, I had to remember that the teenager’s mother Lorelai is just a year older than me on the show.

At the same time, I read about the chaos of the classroom today and the constantly changing curriculum and the rise of AI, where children are supposed to learn and think, “Thank God I’m too old to be impacted by it.”

You may think that all this is a little rich and predictable from someone in the early thirties, but you are not called Nana and wondering if you may only need to scrape your head again to make things really clear.

In equilibrium, I consider this a compliment that I am convincingly as a 70 -year -old quiet woman for her nephew and assume that she really is just her hair. And yes, now I know that when I look at my mother, I’m really looking at me in 40 years.

But I can still shave my head and if he keeps calling me Nana … Well, this is an existential problem for the future, Geriatric Me.