Don't Call Me Sweetie

The other day Jack had a couple of friends over, and I happened to call him "sweetie" in front of everyone. He just glared at me and very firmly said in a low voice through clenched teeth, "Don't call me sweetie."

It's so fun to watch him grow up, but gosh darn it, moments like those are a kick in the gut.

For some random reason I was thinking recently about what it would be like to be in a witness protection program. What it would mean to give up so many things that our lives are built on, like family and friends. And what it would feel like to go by another name.

Roger has always said that he doesn't feel particularly attached to his first name. I don't think I'd have a problem calling him something else.

I've always had such an unusual name--Margy pronounced with a hard G. I never knew exactly what a "Margy" was supposed to be like. Growing up I sometimes wished I had a "normal" name. In second grade I tried turning in my homework with my then dream name, Kathy, but my teacher turned it back to me and said she would not give me credit until I put my proper name on it. I've grown into my name over the years, so it would be strange to go by something else. But I'd adapt.

Jack, however, is a different story. When we went to the hospital to meet him for the first time, we brought along two possible names: Jack if we thought he could live up to it and Stephen if we thought he'd appreciate us playing it on the conservative side. When we looked into his eyes for the first time (well, one eye, then the other, and then finally both at the same time), we knew he was Jack.

I cannot even begin to imagine what we'd call him if we couldn't call him Jack. Sweetie is apparently no longer an option.