My kids have named a lot of their crap over the years. My oldest started naming his toys when he was
around 2 and a half, and they all began with the letter B. There was this safari man who came with a
Jeep named B.D. The dog on the string
was Benny—pretty comical since my husband’s name is Ben. He named a car transporter Brahday (not the
person who drives the car transporter, but the actual vehicle itself), and a
wooden frog Brahda…I guess he was hooked on the letter B, but the creative
juices had petered out. Nonetheless,
those names have stuck for years. His little
brother has a cadre of imaginary friends whose names we hear on a regular
basis: Mr. Monster and Mr. Apple are the
main players, but occasionally we’re treated to news from Mr. Pen, Mr. Sock, and
Mr. Underpants. Yeah, if you hear about
a mister at our house, you’re pretty much guaranteed to never see him.
I don’t name things. I
do have respect and affection for certain items in and around our home: the coffeemaker, my trombone, clean sheets,
firm pillows, blankets that haven’t been dragged all over the floor, the piano,
our dishwasher. I call them what they
are. Even our vehicles---no names.
Until today.
This morning I dropped the kids off at their respective schools
in our 2010 Toyota Sienna, and headed to the beach to take a walk on the
strand. Afterwards I got back in the
minivan, fired it up, and realized that I had left one of the dome lights on
while looking for my sunglasses before the walk. As I turned it off, I said---out loud---“Good
thing we started, Bessie!” I almost gave
her a pat on the dashboard. Almost.
