Don’t worry, I’m not about to sensationally reveal that one of my boys is shaping up to be a mass murderer. This is only the third post, I don’t think we’re in that zone yet (I was always a fourth date kinda gal anyway).
This is way worse, this is about names.
Like any parents, we read the baby name books cover to cover and worried if the chosen names could possibly combine into embarrassing acronyms.
B.E – BIG EARS? BELL-END? BAstard…err?
So I like to think that the names we eventually chose were good names, names that will see them through childhood and into the boardroom/theatre/medical ward/courts, I’m not fussy.
It’s a little disappointing therefore to discover that one of our children seems to be changing his name. It’s not his choice (in fact he’s really against it) but he can’t fight it, it’s happening anyway.
It started innocently enough, the children were in the garden playing ‘Where’s Kevin?’, I don’t know what this game is, it seems to have emerged from nowhere and consists of running around mindlessly screeching ‘Where’s Kevin?’ at No.4 before falling about in fits of laughter and starting again. Childhood, the best years of your fucking life.
Now No 4. is an obliging chap and he tried to find Kevin but since he doesn’t exist, it was a bit of a fool’s errand. So, he isolates the next smallest and therefore slowest one and falls on No 3. shouting, “Kevin!”.
David Attenborough is welcome in our garden any day to witness survival of the fittest in it’s most primitive form.
This is a window into a growing worry for me, No. 4 thinks that if there’s a pecking order, No.3 comes somewhere below the cat. He’s not an omega and that means he needs to take his true place by force. In an entirely intentional campaign of terror, my two year old is employing psychological tactics that would would make ISIS sit up and take note. He is refusing to call No. 3 by his given name.
It was funny at first:
Me: Say goodnight No 4.
No. 4: Night No.1 [kiss], night No.2 [kiss], night…[steely glare]
Then he upped the stakes, calling No. 3 Blondie on occasion. Not consistently, he throws it in at the end as a little surprise kick in the teeth.
No. 4: Go out in the garden…Blondie? <endearing head-tilt to obfuscate the barb>
Kevin was a God Damned gift to No. 4. It was like giving a child a knife and telling them to run with it. It was the ultimate tool in his plans for take-over.
Now every time No.3 opens a door for him “Ankoo Kevin”, steals his toy “KEVIN!!” or even breathes, “Kevin” <pats Kevin’s head menacingly>
And here’s the crux of it, we’ve all started calling him Kevin. We’ve got so familiar with the name when urging him “Don’t say Kevin, say No.3” that it’s entered our familial vocabulary.
Now when No. 3 falls over and starts crying, we rush over with No. 4 looking concerned (he can afford to now, he knows he’s winning) and we’ll say “Oh, no. Look, Kevin’s fallen over…are you going to love him better?”.
Why couldn’t they have played a more aspirational game like “Where’s Charles”? Although maybe I should just be grateful it wasn’t “Where’s Dick?”.