Nicknames

One thing I love about Substack: I am posting a poem about my children's nicknames. This is a poem that is so specific to my family that it doesn't make much sense to share it, and yet here we are 💛.

Vintage Fisher-Price Little People (and their houses, barns, and ferris wheels) are just irresistible. These all live in my youngest son’s room but I bought them for me.

When I was pregnant with my first
we called her “Grain,” not knowing anything
other than her size when we named her. 
She remained Grain until she was born
and then she was Doe, seeking streams of water
the sweetest nickname we could find.

When I was pregnant with my second, my first
laid her little hands on my belly and said Mimi. 
We hadn’t told her the name yet
but when her sister was born 
in the yellow morning
that was how Doe mispronounced her name
and what we call her still.

When I gave birth to my third, a little boy
we called him “Buddy” from the first
not in the way a man might growl another man
when they bump shoulders hard in a bar
but in the way that he was our sweet buddy
faithful round companion, babbling without words.

When my fourth was born, Buddy couldn’t enunciate 
his given name, and called him “Sandal” instead. 
“Sandal” traveled to “Sand Dollar”
and “Scrits” became “Skritterman’s Famous Pig” 
and on and on, a trail of nicknames leading back 
to our beloved blonde baby.

When my fifth was born, her name was so pretty
but all we ever called her was “Goose”
because I used to chant, delirious with wakefulness
“Hi the goose! Hi the geese! Hi the goss!”
Mimi looked at me in mock disgust: “What does that even mean?”

When my last was born, another boy
Goose couldn’t say his whole name
so she said one part of it—“Nit”—and six years later 
that’s still his name, not a pernicious egg 
that clings to the scalp
but a hazel-eyed baby who began life 
by burrowing into my breast
crying for milk, held to my heart.