Will this Nickname Stick?

Tyson has a nickname. He is the “Budster.”

Here’s how I know: the other day, when 28-month-old Sydney was talking about him, instead of using her normal “baby Tyson” to address him, she called him Budster.

When a 2-year-old picks up on your nickname, it is a sign you may be branded with it for life.

  

I can’t tell you precisely how he got it. I think I probably was calling him “buddy,” but because of his weight issues, he is too tiny to qualify as a full-size “buddy.” He’s more of a little buddy, or a Budster.

I’ve been calling him that since his August operation. Somehow, it has stuck. Unlike Sydney, who had a million nicknames, Tyson has really only had one. And, unlike Sydney, where none of the nicknames stuck, this one seems to be sticking.

It is not as manly as the coolest of all nicknames, The Boss, but I like it better than Puff Daddy or Snoop Dog.

It is better than Shit-for-Brains. I think my dad may have called me that a time or two. And it is better than his uncle, Little Dick.

Although, I do feel a little like that guy on Saturday Night Live making copies every time I use the name Budster. It really does sound like one of the nicknames he would toss around.

Is this something that can be carried on into adulthood? I wonder if at some point in his young life, he will turn to me with a look of disgust and declare that he no longer wants to be known as the Budster. It will probably be during some moment of pre-teen angst where he is trying to be cool and develop a rapper persona like Iron Tyson or Ice T or the T Kettle.

No worries. I can change with the times. I’m as fluid as his breast milk. I won’t call him Budster in front of his friends. I won’t make him wear “Budster” on the back of his T-ball shirt. I won’t introduce him to his junior high teachers as Budster Gregg.

But, in my mind, I’m always going to remember my little buddy who struggled so hard in his first few months to even eat, making every meal a marathon. I’m always going to picture that tiny body that emerged from open-heart surgery so battered I wasn’t even sure he would make it, despite the doctor’s assurances. I’m always going to recall all the nights his mother and I held him tight, wishing that love alone would help him heal and become whole.

To me, he’s always going to be my little Budster.

Let's Make Some Money from our Walking Billboards

Did you ever notice how young kids become walking billboards for corny sayings?

Tyson must have 13 shirts that say things like “Daddy’s Little Rock Star” or “Santa’s Little Helper” or “Ass, Gas or Grass…no one rides for free.”

I see these kinds of shirts on kids all the time. You get a bunch of babies together for a play date and it is like going to a family reunion in West Virginia or Kentucky – everyone has a shirt with a stupid saying.

How did this start? Parents who would never wear shirts that say “Crack Kills” right above their butt cracks have no problem dressing little Jimmy in a shirt that says “FBI” in big letters and “Female Body Inspector”  in little letters or “Don’t Make me Violate My Parole.”

I stopped wearing such shirts in college, or shortly thereafter. I think I had one of those Salty Dog t-shirts from a Spring Break trip that said something stupid, or maybe it was a Dick’s Last Resort t-shirt that said “Chicks Love Dicks” in big letters followed by a microscopic “Last Resort.”

Now, when I see someone dressed in something like that, I’m looking around for the trailer park.

Am I wrong on this? Have I gone Park Avenue? Have I forgotten my roots?

Once, when I was a kid, and Olivia Newton John was doing her thing in sweatsuits and headbands, I wore a shirt that just said “ANIMAL.” I liked it because she sang a song that went, “Let’s Get Physical, Physical…I Want to Get Animal, Let’s Get Into Animal,” and I was a 14-year-old kid who wanted to get ANIMAL with anything of the female persuasion.

I remember adults looking at my shirt with puzzlement and asking me what it meant. I really didn’t have a good answer. Most likely, BECAUSE I WAS A 14-YEAR-OLD IDIOT.

Now, I am the adult. And it is my kid who is wearing shirts that say “I’m not as Think as you Drunk I am.”

Ok, maybe not that.

But then I got to thinking. What if we turned this trend into something positive? Babies are cute. People love to look at them. If you walk into a restaurant with a baby, you can bet nearly everyone will look at that little bundle of joy as you walk from the door to the table.

So, instead of wearing a shirt that says “Daddy’s Football Star,” what if we put him in a shirt that said “I Like Gerber” or ‘I Buy My Carrots and Peas at Kroger.” Would Gerber or Kroger be willing to rent space on my kid?

You see the possibilities, right? If your kid has great muscle tone, he could wear a Gold’s Gym shirt. If he is a little portly, a Skyline Chili shirt might be a little more appropriate. If she has crystal blue eyes, maybe a shirt that advertises colored contact lenses. If it is a great hair day, a shirt for the local beauty salon.

Suddenly, I am making money off my kid. I like that idea. How can I get this movement started?

In the meantime, I’ll try to find some shirts that match my family more closely. Sydney  can get a “Fart Now Loading” shirt with a Internet loading status bar below it. Tyson can have a “Shit Happens” shirt and Brooke can get the classic ‘I’m with Stupid” shirt.

Hell, maybe I even will get an “I Beat Anorexia” shirt.

Two Words: Dog Poop

 

 

My daughter has an unnatural obsession with dog poop.

Any brown spot she sees leads her to call out, “Daddy, dog poop!” A fleck of mud on her clothes or her hand? “Daddy, dog poop!”  When I am changing her diaper, or her brother’s diaper, she looks down at the dirty mess and says, “Daddy, dog poop!”

Twenty times a day, I hear this refrain. It has kind of become her answer to everything.

Brooke has an old night stand where a candle burned a stain into it. (Most likely the result of one of her drunken college binges.) Every time Sydney passes that stand, she points to the spot and says, “Daddy, dog poop.”

Sometimes, she can't go to sleep because, well, you know.

“Sydney, it is TIME TO GO TO SLEEP!”

“Daddy, dog poop! There’s dog poop on the bed.”

When I loaded her into the car at 3 a.m. prior to our Thanksgiving trip to Milwaukee, she was excited about the middle-of-the-night excursion to grandma and grandpa’s. ‘What are we going to see in Milwaukee?” I asked, anticipating some joyful squeal.

“Dog poop?” she asked.

Sigh. 

In her defense, she does see a lot of dog poop. We have two dogs, both weighing near 100 pounds. She’s told frequently to watch out for dog poop in the yard. (In the summer, I can mow that into fertilizer and in the winter, it is frozen and easy to pick up. Fall and summer are just messy.)

Plus, our German Shepherd, Vegas, has been diagnosed with degenerative myelopathy, which means that his brain and the nerves in his back end don’t always communicate. That sometimes results in accidents on the porch or in the house.

Yeah, I know. TMI.

Still, my daughter’s obsession is a bit out of control. When other people listen to her, they probably think we spend our days swimming in dog poop.

I suspect there will be many more obsessions over the next 16 years. My goal will be to channel them into something a little more positive than dog poop.

Like farts and burps.