When we have company at our house, it’s hard to know who I am, even though everyone visiting is absolutely sure I’m not Martha Stewart.
Why have they’ve arrived at that conclusion? Only Costco knows.
The uncertainty over who I am started while I was popping frozen Otis Spunkmeyer cookies onto the baking sheet with great-nephews Jeremy and Joshua.
“Now, in just 10 minutes,” I said, “Grandma Lucy is going to have fresh baked chocolate . . . “
Never miss a local story.
“Wait a minute!” Joshua shouted. “You’re not Grandma. You’re Aunt Lucy!”
“You mean Great Aunt Lucy,” older brother Jeremy scolded. “You need to add the great.”
They may only be in elementary school, but they’re pretty sharp. It must be in their genes.
But I’m sorry to say, their grandma — I mean great aunt — may not be in the same pool.
Surely, you would think I could keep one title straight.
On the other hand, it was better than the last visit when they were here. That time my daughters, Traci and Tiffany, and their families came, too.
Vans full of grandchildren, son-in-laws, nephews, nieces and great nephews arrived, spilling out children, babies — wrapped around adults — and a tiny Chihuahua that one of the kids was pet-sitting. Their excitement couldn’t be contained. Obviously they’d heard about my famous cookies.
“Me-ma!” grandson Luke exclaimed.
“Grandma Lucy!” the 5-year old twins shrieked while teen granddaughter, Ashley, texted “hi gma.”
“Mom!” the girls said as they handed-off the grandkids, a look of relief on their faces.
“Aunt Lucy!” the rest chorused.
It was going to be an interesting visit. And it was.
“Lucy, come here!” the twins shouted from the living room.
“I can’t right now, dears. Me-ma is in the kitchen. I’ll be there as soon as I peel the foil off this frozen lasagna. “
“No, not you Grandma Lucy,” they giggled. “We’re talking to Lucy!!”
Oh, that Lucy; the one that barks AND bites.
“And you’re not Me-ma. You’re Grandma Lucy!” Hunter and Hailey reminded me.
And so it went hour after hour. When I thought I was one label, I was really another. It was all a bit worrisome. However, during this past weekend, my great-nephews said it all.
“Aunt Lucy, it doesn’t matter what you call yourself. We know who you are,” Jeremy said.
“And we love you a lot!” 5-year old Joshua added.
Oh, from the mouths of babes. A gentle reminder that this is exactly the way God feels, too. Titles don’t matter to Him at all. He knows who I am — inside and out — and He loves me. A lot!