Okay, my daughter (guess her name) sent me this pic from a tunnel under the railroad on her way to work. It took me ALL DAY to realize that it didn’t say her name (or that of Queen Elizabeth).

When my first baby was a newborn, we would often hold her up in front of us and, well, what the heck do you talk to a newborn baby about? We said her name. A-B-C-D-EEEEE-lizabeth. Over and over again. I’m sure we talked to her about other things too but I can’t really remember them as well. I did tell her (over and over) her origin story, meaning her journey from conception to birth. I won’t bore you or embarrass her with that.

Our first child didn’t really have a lot of nicknames. The Commander tried to call her a rapscallion (which she kinda was) but she adamantly refused that moniker. Same with Mrs. Kafouli. I think these were things my mother was called by her dad. But this kid was Elizabeth and that was pretty much it. NO! I am NOT a rapscallion! NO! I am NOT Mrs. Kafouli!

My second child hated the name we assigned her at birth and called herself all kinds of things. Ababa. Mr. Golden Sun. MOUSE. Mouse was the name that stuck and she has coerced everyone she has ever known to call her Mouse and not her “government name”. I have always been okay with this, partially since I have never been crazy about my own name. Plus I like to be known as Mouse’s Moom. It has a nice ring to it.

I think my older daughter has a couple of nicknames she likes or at least tolerates, Little Cat Z being one of the most recent ones. “It has a nice ring to it.”

But she can certainly be an Elizabitch if she needs to. But always politely and diplomatically. Did I actually birth this person?

We’ll maybe talk about Dr. Seuss some other day🐸

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