Gretchen Carlson
I opened the front door and mother’s face lit up like a spray of fireworks. She pointed to my two-year-old brother, toddling away from the front window. “I told Todd you’d be home from school any minute.”
He bee-lined toward me, arms stretched outward.
I scrunched low and scooped Todd into a hug. “How’s the big boy?”
“When he saw you, he said your name.” Mother bent close to us and cooed, “Say it. Say her name.”
Todd buried his head into my shoulder then peeked at me. I tickled him. “Come on, say my name. Gretchen. Gr—et—chen. I stretched out the sound of each syllable.
So far, my brother’s limited vocabulary included, dada, momma, and “duce” for juice. That’s it, besides baby jabber. He learned my name? As the only sibling and friend in his world that revolved around naps, a favorite blankie, and diapers, it shouldn’t surprise me. A shiver of pride ran down my spine.
He giggled and wrapped his arms around my neck.
Mother continued to coax Todd whose wiggles pushed me off balance. I plunked down and sat while she pried him off me. Eyes level with mine, he now stood in front of me, a full thirty-three inches tall.
I waited.
“He said your name throughout the day. I first heard it when he wandered into your bedroom and he called out, looking for you. Just now, when he saw you approaching the house, he repeatedly yelled your name.”
“Please.” I begged. “Gr—et—chen.”
Todd’s nose crinkled and his mouth opened. “Baboo.”
My mouth dropped and Mother clapped. “That’s it.”
Her elation made no sense. “Baboo?” I choked on the word and pictured a baboon. “It’s doesn’t even sound like—”
“Gretchen must be too hard for him to say.” Mother hugged Todd. The last time I’d heard her so happy, Father had announced he’d gotten a raise.
I shrugged and left the room until Father came home and Mother announced the big news. It was official. I had a new name, a family nickname that lasted for years. Baboo.
Nicknames. Do you have one? Do you like it? We all know cruel and ugly names. How do you handle those? I’d love to hear your story: Write me at: gretchencarlsonwriter@gmail.com OR leave a note here!
Kristen Gwen
Elise Haroldson
Oh my goodness. I have so many. Tori. Tor. Torador. Toe. Toria. Tee-to. But NEVER Vicki. 🙂
Victoria does lend itself to nicknames, and it sounds as if you’ve lived with a bunch! And I promise to never call you Vicki!
That’s great! The books I write are full of nicknames. I’m fascinated by nicknames and where they come from.
The one that made me cringe was Homer. When I was in junior high school — long before “The Simpsons” was created and made the name familiar, if not popular — I had a basketball coach who kept calling two of us guys Homer. He could never remember which one of us was named Homer.
Actually, it was NEITHER of us had EVER bore the name Homer. My buddy was Howard and I’m Burton. It didn’t matter. For the rest of my junior high years, a lot of the guys simply called me Homer.
Ugh.
You’re right. Nicknames are fasincating. How crazy strange that the coach called you both Homer. Even though I’m not good with remembering names, I hope I do better than that!