That title up there is a little misleading. I wish I could blame the Friday’s incident on my children but in fact this problem existed long before they arrived.
The screen goes wavy as we travel back in time.
A much younger me stands at a college admission window filling out paperwork. The clerk asks, “Your mother’s name?” “Gale …” She writes that down. “And your father’s name?” “It’s (pause).” My mind goes completely blank. I fumble. “It’s … uh …. “ Grasping … where is it!? I know this one. “Danny!”, I blurt. She raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure?” A sheepish smile. “It’s Danny.”
At a coop event with my kids. The three older ones play as I stand nearby, watching, holding Baby Z, and chatting with another mom. A girl runs up to us. She’s enamored by the baby and stands cooing and making kissy faces at him. Abruptly she asks,” What’s his name?” I am mid-conversation with the other mother and her question takes me by surprise. “What? Oh, it’s ….” Oh, no! Not again! The mom next to me cocks her head expectantly. The little girl waits with a smile. Several possibilities run through my head. Adam? No. Bob? Uh, no. I fumble. “What do you think his name is?, “ I ask the girl, brightly. She looks at me blankly. “I mean what would you name him if he were your baby?” Without hesitation, she replies, “Zechariah.” AHH! I am saved! Her guess is wrong but so close that it tricks the synapses into firing again. “Ooh, that’s close! His name is Baby Z.” She nods and skips off to find fun elsewhere. The other mom and I pick up where we left off.
The moral of this story is this, dear reader. If we meet on the street and I cannot recall your name, you should feel special. That is normally an honor I reserve for family.