Old Piggy

Patch comes in to our bedroom early this morning to lay with us for ten or fifteen minutes before the mad rush to day care and work begins. For some reason, lately, she’s been fixated on having a different name. Perhaps this might be a phase; I remember my oldest going through something similar. Plus, they like to create secret names for each other to use in our presence. To fool us or trick us, I guess.

She tells us she wants to be known as “Crystal” from now on. Now, being not-quite-four, “Crystal” to her probably symbolizes fairies and princesses and magic kingdoms. To me, it symbolizes a forty-five year old Las Vegas pole dancer. So instead of playing into her hand, I tell her that I’m going to call her “Bertha.” Or “Matilda.” Or “Agatha.” Yeah! That’s it. “Patch, I’m going to call you Agatha from now on!”

Unfazed and without skipping a beat, she tells me she’s going to call me “Old Piggy” from now on.

My wife laughed hysterically and, I have to admit, I did too. Not that I encourage disrespect from our children. No. But c’mon – “Old Piggy” is two disses wrapped up in one! And this from the mind of a little child barely around for four revolutions around the Sun.

I let Patchie get away with it while we rassled before leaving the house for the day, and hopefully, she’ll forget by the time I get home tonight.

Whether “she” refers to Patch or the wife, I’ll leave that for you to decide.