In case you’re wondering, I’m called Grandma Flea because our first beautiful grandchild couldn’t say “Grandma Atholie”. Both Grandma’s wanted to be called “Grandma”. Every time I’d babysit the beautiful one, she’d refer to “that other Grandma” – and I didn’t want to be called “that other Grandma” when I wasn’t there – after all I am the most important one 
. “Grandma Flea” was the result.
Our next beautiful grandchild, a very active grandson who didn’t, and still doesn’t, have time for the niceties of life, didn’t bother with the “Grandma” – along with “Bob the Builder” who became “Builder”, I became “Flea”, then “Gumma”, now “Grandma”. I feel a little wistful that he has moved on to grown-up language.
Then came the next beautiful grandchild, who collectively named her “Pa” and me as “Fleapa” and we drove the “Pa-car”. What joy!
There is an amazing synchronicity to all this. When our own children were little, Grandpa Flea likened them to “fleas” – just when you sat down and got comfortable, they started to annoy you! And throughout their childhood, when talking about them, we called them “the fleas”. (We had two dogs, so we had some experience of the other sort of flea.)
