Dan and I have called each other a lot of names over the years. No, not that way! I mean, good names. Pet names, if you will. When we lived in California it was all "Bunny" this and "Baby" that. Then we got lazy and started calling each other "Babe" all the time. "Hey babe, are you getting a beer?" "Whaddaya want babe?" I know right? Classy.
These days Dan mostly addresses me as "Lovey" while I use the more familiar form of his prenom and screech from the top of the stairs "Daaaaaannnnnnnyyyyy? Could you put the diapers in for their second cycle? And check that the dryer's not on fire?"
Rascal is alternately referred to as Rassy, Bassy, Bass-Bass, Boosicle, Puppy, Pups, and "The Dog" as in "Daaaaaannnnnnnyyyyy? I'm lying in bed, can you take out the Dog?"
The jury is still out on the most appropriate nick-name for our child, or as we like to call him, Harvester, Harveysons, H-sons, or "The Baby." Grandma mostly calls him Harvey, or sometimes Harve, the latter of which always gives me a chill because Harve was what everyone called my grandfather. I mean it makes sense since we did name the baby after that guy, but still. I hear "Harve, don't touch the poop!" and I imagine that it's Mr. Bernstein up there getting his diaper changed. Which by the way he would have loved if the changer was cute enough.
All this name calling makes me think about my own nom-de-mom, and what I'll be called in the coming years. Will it be Mom? Mother? Momma? Mommy? Ma?
Me, I prefer momma, but these days I'll take anything that isn't "WAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"