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.