That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet;
- Juliet, in Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet
I’ve answered to many names over the years, though none as distinctive
as what I now answer to.
Apparently my given name, Marie, must remind people of
someone else. Growing up in an Italian town, I was called Maria as often as
Marie. I was prompt to set the record straight.
I’ve also been called Mary and Maureen, and even, oddly, Murray. That last one happens mostly on the phone.
Other end of phone: Your name is?
Me: Marie
Other end of phone: Murray?
Me: No. Ma-rie
Other end of phone: Can you spell that?
Me: M-A-R-I-E. (dammit! Could I possibly have a simpler
name?)
There have been nicknames, too. My sisters knew that if they
wanted to get under my skin; all they had to do was call me Mur.
And they’d call me Sueann, too, after Betty White’s character on the Mary Tyler
Moore show. I don’t remember much about the character. But she must have been
into all things domestic, because Sueann was not a term of endearment. It was
used to mock me if I was baking or something. (Of course they’d always enjoy the
fruits of my labor!! Hmmmph.)
In college I became known as M. Just plain old M. It was
good, because it’s pretty hard to butcher one letter. Although variations grew
out of it, and I answered to Emma, Em-ster, and a few other things. One time I
called a friend’s house and his elderly Mom answered.
Me: “Hi this is Marie, is Tom there?”
Tom’s Mom: “Who is this?”
Me: “This is his friend M.” (thought I’d better keep it short
and sweet).
So then I hear: “Tom! It’s your friend Emily on the phone.”
Probably my favorite name, though, is Mommy. There is
nothing sweeter to a mother’s ear than that sound… unless it’s being screeched,
mid-tantrum, of course.
Lately, our house has become The Land of Make Believe. All
toys talk and have personalities. Emotions. And names. Even the toys that don’t have
given names must be assigned a name. A very popular question here is “What’s
his name?” ... about any inanimate plaything. My usual response? “I don’t
know! What would you like to call him?” But that usually doesn’t cut it. It is
my job to name all the playthings. We have a generic little train who is now
officially George. Yesterday I dubbed a puzzle piece Sam. It’s a lot to keep
track of, but somehow he does it!
When we play trains, which we do daily, I am always assigned
to “be” the flat piece of wood called Sir Topham Hat. It’s a given that when I
sit down on the floor to play, that I will hear “You be Toppa Hat” within
seconds. For the uninitiated, he’s the superintendent of the railway in Thomas the Tank
Engine land. As Topham Hat, I must make him talk and I must hold him at
all times during play. Because if I put him down, he’s promptly and firmly placed
back in-hand.
Lately, I’ve been allowed to “be” certain trains, too. Last
night, I was told, “You be Mike, I be James…..<pause>…No no no! You be
James, I be Mike.” Not that there’s a big difference. They’re both red engines!
Yesterday I got to be a storm. How does one become a storm?
After consulting my inner child, I twirled around the room and swayed, arms
going every which way, while making eerie wind noises. Then I swooped down on a
blanket, under which two trains had taken cover and yanked the lid off their shelter.
I guess my performance was good enough, because a few encores were requested.
But the most interesting character obsession of late has to
be Christopher Robin. My son has been fixated on Winnie the Pooh’s friend for
months. And now? I am Christopher Robin. Or so I’m told. Each day, I’m reminded
“You be Christopher Robin.” And sometimes it works out to my advantage, as when
CR says it’s time for a new diaper, there is often more cooperation than when
plain old Mommy says it.
And so, I hand him his milk.
“Thank you, Christopher Robin!”
Would you like an apple?
“Oh, yes, Christopher Robin!”
Good night sweetie…
“Good night Christopher Robin”
I’ll be his make-believe friend – as long as he doesn’t tell
me to “Be Sueann.”
The best exchange happened the other day. It was very early
in the morning. Still dark out, and too early to wake up, even for a morning
person like me. Nonetheless, I was stirred by a forceful whisper in my ear:
“Wake up, Christopher Robin!!”
And even though the first number on my blurry clock radio read 5, I had to smile.
