The Girl With A Hundred Names

She came into the world hungry, kicking, and, yes, screaming, great lungfuls of protests at the shock of the cold hard world. Smart, quite attitudinal, very opinionated yet physiologically incapable of getting a point across, she kept us up and brought us to the end of tears. But in the end, she's now decided to become an extremely cute and lovable little critter. And she's accumulated a whole great big bundle of names. Not nearly as much as the somewhat hyperbolic title to this little post, but enough to confuse even the slightly disinterested bystander.

Yes, there were the modifications of her true, baptismal name, Charlotte. There was Charlemagne when she demanded immediate and complete attention; there was Charles, pronounced phoentically French, when she assumed a regal mien. When she could not be quieted or consoled, there was Shar-shar, spoken in a most rueful tone. And her older sister, wanting to get in on the name game, christened her Sharples.

Then came, inevitably, Chuck. A snapshot photo of her, confused as if she had just woke up from the most comfy nap, and looking slightly guilty as if caught red-handed in the cookie jar (as if those chubby little mitts could manipulate a tupperware lid at five months), and my wife and I glanced at each other, "Chuck" falling simulataneously from our lips. And from Chuck, a whole cottage industry cropped up: Chuckles when she was particularly grumpy; Chucklepatch when her screams simply did not register any more with us. I recall remarking, once, to my wife to get "Chuckage" for a feeding.

And still, the classics. Perhaps echoing from four years ago, an election cycle ago, when her older sister held her position as queen of the house. Monkey, Bunny, Little One, Sweetie, all those little terms of endearment we shower upon our littlest ones, the ones who give us so much grief and sleepless nights but who we treasure and love and adore with all our being.

But the list goes on ... but perhaps a wee bit too embarrassing to eternalize in data bytes.

Do you think there will still be an internet in ten or twelve years? Maybe not recognizable to us today, but I think there remains the odd frightening possibility I might have a very irate tween coming after me for the above well-intentioned nicknames ...