As I chat the day long with my baby daughters, nickname after nickname comes blurting out of my mouth. “Stinky Booty.” “Funky Monkey.” “Jeepers Peepers.” Really? Why would I say that?
Things get even weirder as the nicknames themselves get nicknames. Take for example my daughter “Sandy.” After a trip to New Mexico, we started calling her “Nonie” (pronounced NO-nee) because she fell in love with a postcard of a Native American dancer titled “Little Nonnie.” Now that I call her Nonie, “Nonie Bologna” keeps rolling off my tongue. If you would have told me a year ago that I’ll have a beautiful baby girl that I was going to call “Nonie Bologna,” I would have told you that you’re crazy.
For my daughter Clementine, I use the expected “Clemmie” and “Clem,” but for some reason I say “Clemmie Bimmie” and “Clem Bim” a lot. We also often call her Shakira because of the way she dances. “Bread Bandit” is another — the girl really freaking loves a plain slice of bread. The list goes on and on… even “Christmas Morning” because she gets so excited every five minutes that she’s like a kid on Christmas morning. And while my daughters are only four months apart, their nicknames are not interchangeable. Sandy is not Shakira and Clementine is not “Baby Girl,” even though she’s the youngest.
So what gives? I can see why I have had nicknames for my foster children, as it is a way to make more intimate a name that I didn’t choose. But I chose Clementine’s name and I love it. I want everyone else to call her by her full name, “Clementine,” just like I’m “Rebecca” and not a “Becky,” “Becca” or “Becks” (unless you’re elderly — then you can call me whatever you want). The only nickname I had was “Clyde Crashcup” (thanks mom!) because of my clumsiness.
I’m thinking I better cool it before the girls come up with their own crazy nicknames for me. I have one friend, Antoinette, who calls her mom “Rocket” because she has a bit of a hyper streak. Aak!
For more posts from Rebecca this month: