Thank Goodness Some Nicknames Don’t Stick!

As a little girl, my nickname was Baldy. It seems that as a toddler, I contracted some kind of head rash that meant cutting off all of my hair. So, Baldy became what people called me, from aunts and uncles to neighbors. I must have been in the third or fourth grade before I even knew of the nickname, because at a family gathering, an adult said something like, “Look at how Baldy has grown!”

When we were alone, I asked my mother who Baldy was, and she responded that it was a nickname for me when I was younger. As a girl and someone sensitive to being called by my name, I am grateful that we moved from a small town to a larger one, and the nickname didn’t follow me. I am also glad I don’t remember a time when I was bald for a long time while I healed from the rash that covered my whole little head, which must have been painful.

I had only one other nickname, and it wasn’t nice; it caused me great pain as a teenager. My four adopted children have always called me Gina, but I don’t think of it as a nickname; I consider it a term of endearment. They were ages 1-6 when their mother, my only sibling, died unexpectedly at age 23. They couldn’t say ‘Aunt Regina’ or just ‘Regina,’ so they called me Gina. And after I adopted them at age 21, I wanted them to remember their mother, so I never insisted on being called Mother or Mama.

Today, I am Grandma Gina, Granny Gina, and Nana Regina to the many grandchildren and great-grandchildren. However, although I hear Gina in my ear, I hear Mama or Grandmama in my spirit. Calling me Gina has the same effect on me that it has on women called Mama. It hits me differently when other people call me Regina. Therefore, it’s more than a nickname.

But, thankfully, I am not Grandma Baldy! That would be horrible! Some things are better forgotten!

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