What's In A Name (Other Than Your Dignity)?

Sometimes you wish you could go back in time and edit things. Originally, I wanted this space to be about the unique struggles of folks with twins. But from time-to-time, maybe more than I figured, interesting things that have nothing to do with twins occur. I could go back to the original post and delete the part about this stuff being all about twins…which I may do. But that would be dishonest. And since I just said I might do it, you might go back and check to see if I did it, which would make getting away with such trickery even more problematic. Then again, I could erase the part about me going back and changing the original post that I just posted. But again, that just makes the whole issue stickier. Goddammit, why can’t I ever get anything right the first time?

So let’s just say that a lot of what I write about will be about twins, but when other stuff happens I’ll share it, too. What, you’re perfect? Who are you to judge?  Get your ass into the blogosphere and see how easy it is!  OK, let’s just agree to disagree and move on. You were judging me, right?  

Hey, speaking of disagreements, I’d like to share a big one Jess and I are having. This could very-well impact the future of our relationship and how our boys are raised. And whoever wins will have the upper-hand in this parenting arrangement. It seems that more women read my blog than men, so you can bet your sweet-femininity that I’m not doing some sort of slanted poll to let y’all decide. I’m just letting you in on this, and who ever swings longest and hardest in the Sprague Household will win.

Ahh...dey so coooot!

Recently, our friend’s mother bought two toy bears for the boys. They are very soft, and the guys seem to like them a great deal. Especially Logan, who is going through some tummy troubles. When he starts to cry he finds a lot of comfort in it. So what’s the problem? The moment we started using them Jess referred to them as “Lovey Toys.”  Ugh.  Really?

I just cannot, with any self-dignity, bring myself to call them “Lovey Toys”.  I imagine a scenario where in a moment of weakness, I acquiesce to this ridiculous idea and my ball-busting friends jump out of the closet primed to carry out an assault of never-ending of taunts, gang-initiation style.  Each of them more verbally violent with each beer, until I lay curled up in a corner crying. Only no tears come out. Just heaving in shame, wondering how this came to be.  My soul a puddle of diluted testosterone.  No, I’m not blowing this out of proportion, this would actually happen. You don’t know these people.

"Name them bears after someone else!"

The first time “Lovey Toy” was uttered, I countered with “Beary Sanders”. Hey, it was the best I could come up with at the time and Barry Sanders was probably the best running back of my lifetime.  But I had to sell this mother-effer like this was the greatest name ever.  So I have proactively begun referring to them that way. “Logan,” I ask confidently, “do you want Beary Sanders? You LOVE Beary, don’t you?” Jess’ response is typically a disappointing roll of the eyes and an exasperated exhale.  Jess can be convincing, especially when you don’t want her to be. “I just always dreamed of my children having a comfort item that they called ‘Lovey Toy’. C’mon. Don’t take that dream away.” No way. This is a PLOY! Is this up there with a perfect white-wedding dress and French kissing Adam Sandler (oh, she likes ‘em odd, I tell you. Except for me, of course)?  Who puts that much hope in what your kids’ toys are called? So why should I budge? Do I really want to be “Lovey Toy Guy”?

Take your weak sauce somewhere else, lady!

Then slowly, guilt seeps past the sandbags protecting my sensitive side, and the consideration slowly make sense.  Then I think some more (which always does me in). I ponder. Is it really that big of a deal? OK, so what if I call them “Lovey Toys”. So what, right? Isn’t being in a relationship  all about picking your battles, and compromising? Maybe my desire to not call them “Lovey Toys” is greater than her desire TO call them that. But how will this affect me in the long run?  You win! They’re “Lovey Toys”! Whoop-dee-doo.  It’s not like anyone’s ever gonna know.  Unless they read this.

Shit.

Looks like I have some editing to do. I think I hear Jess calling me a “pansy” in the other room.