Before Asher was born, I would sit in his “empty” nursery (empty only because it was sans child, but certainly not short on things) and rock in the rocking chair and think my big thoughts about motherhood. Did these thoughts include what to do when my child starts throwing cottage cheese with surprising velocity and saying no? Not especially. Did they include dreaming about being pooped and vomited on at the same time? Negatory. No, I mostly spent this time imagining my life as a sort of nose pierced June Cleaver, which is probably fodder for another post. Something that I did, oddly, think about during these pregnant rocking sessions, were all of the words that are in Asher’s name. This is due in large part to the vintage animal cards that used to hang over the changing table spelling out his name. (I say “used to” because we quickly realized that anything within arm’s reach of said changing table was guaranteed a swift death, and thus the sweet little hanging cards were relocated.) Anyway, the point of all of this is that in my rocking and staring, I discovered that Asher’s name contains the words share, hear(s), ear(s), hare, era(s), rash, sear, shear, she, he, has, ha, and of course, ash.
Now let me ask you this. With at least 16 words hidden in Asher’s name, do you think that we call him by any of these things on any given day? Nope. Not even close. You know what we call this poor kid?
Tickles, Britches McGhee, Pickles, Monkey, Monkey Pig, Asher Pig, The Piglet, Long Legs McGoo (really the beauty of the McGhees and McGoos is that they get attached to pretty much everything, so just pop one of those on the ends of any of these names and you’ll be on a Drew and Amelia roll), The Young Sir, Asher Pants, Asher Bean, Piggles, Tickle Britches, Munchkin, Booshka, Love Bug, Butter Bean, Pahdner, Cheeks McGhee…you get the idea. Of these, the top four are Pickles, Butterbean, Monkey Pig and Asher Pig. I’m about to bust out a Say Anything reference here and say, how did that “happen”? The short answer is, I have no earthly idea. I’d like to hold Drew responsible, but the truth is, he’s not the one running around calling his kid Pickles, so I’m pretty sure that I’m at fault here too.
So I guess what I’m driving at here is, anyone know of a good therapist? I think I know a 17 month old that’s on his way to an identity crisis provoked by his parent’s complete and total inability to call their child by his given name. Pickle Pants? Really?
How about you? Pets, children, loved ones? Please tell me that you have an endearingly appalling arsenal of pet names in your bag too. Tell me or else I may start calling you Britches Mahoulahan and patting your back soothingly. Just you wait.