Murray
Like most couples, Kristen and I have a pet name (or two or three or four) for each other — usually, the theme involves something with a smell (“Stinky” is a common one) — but our fallback is that we call each other Bubba. In fact, I call her Kristen and she calls me Raphe only when we’re a) in public and in ear shot of other people or b) when we’re angry at each other.
So it comes as no surprise that when talking to Henry, we call him by a nickname as much as his real one. The stand-by, of course, is Barnabas and its associated variants (Barnababy, Barnabelly, Barnabubba), but there are others (Little Man, Monkey, Froggy, etc). These are random; we never really know what we’re going to call him at any one time. It’s like freestyle rap. (I should know, because I’m quite “street”.)
The one nickname, though, that keeps on coming back is Murray, and that’s usually when Henry has this disgusted face, as if to say, “Why, why, why have you made me so unhappy.” He doesn’t cry when he’s featuring the Murray face, and he’s just as likely to fall asleep as smile after 30 seconds. But that mug just kills me.
It’s good that he can show his displeasure in way not involving screaming (although he’s quite good as that, too). On Sunday, the cat litter was a day too ripe, and Kristen walked past it holding Henry, he made the “stinky” face. And, while experts say that he’s still too young to actually smile for a reason, Kristen and I both know that when he puts that grin on his face, it’s because he’s happy.
Now if we could only say the same thing about Murray.
