What’s in a name?!

“Breakfast. Come and get iiit!”

The pitter patter of tiny to large feet told Nancy Shoe that her nine sons were making their way to the kitchen table. When everyone was seated, she commenced roll call, whilst she finished frying up some bacon.

“Edward?”

“Here.”

“Jonah?”

“Here.”

“Abner?”

“Here.”

“Jasper?”

“Here.”

“Fernando?”

“Here.”

“Grady?”

“Here.”

“Shem?”

“Here.”

“Potter?”

“Here.”

“Timber?”

“Timber?”

“Timber!”, Nancy shouted as she spun around.

“Not Timber. Today I’m Ralph.”

Uh, not this again, thought Nancy.

“What’s wrong with the name you had yesterday?”, asked Nancy.

“Well,” said Timber, “I tried it, and it just didn’t feel right. I don’t see myself as a Frank.”

“Well, frankly, I don’t either, but maybe that’s because it’s not the name I gave you,” quipped Nancy.

“Well, today I’d like to try Ralph.”

“You can’t have Ralph,” said Shem.

Timber: “But it’s your middle name, you don’t really use it.”

Shem: “Get your own.”

Timber: “But…”

Shem: “GET..YOUR..OWN..TIM.”

Nancy: “Remind me again, what’s wrong with Timber?”

“Like I’ve said, a thousand and one times,” sighed Timber, “kids tease me and call me Tinder, like the app.”

“Well, said Nancy, “how about Roger?”

Timber: “Rabbit.”

“Theodore?”

“Chipmunk.”

“John?”

“Toilet.”

“Baby, any name you pick, if those little pests want to tease you, they’ll figure something cruel to say. Just stick to Tinder, uh, I mean Timber, and own it. Either way, you’re flammable.” *Snigger*

“Really mom?!”

“Hey, I’ve earned the right to jest. Got the stretch marks and scars to prove it. Plus, you can’t raise nine boys without a sense of humour. Now eat your breakfast. And if any of those poop emojis give you grief, jot down their names. I’m sure we can give them a taste of their own medicine.”

I should’ve just given them numbers or colours instead of names, thought Nancy.


*If you enjoyed this post, check out more of my fiction here.

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