Many of my earliest memories center around my sister. She was nearly ten years old when I made my debut and according to family stories, she was elated to have a second real baby to care for. In many ways she was a second mother to me through those formative years. It was her prickly lap that I sat on in the back seat of the car or in church and she supervised my day-to-day instruction, even letting me tag along in her cool convertible, listening to The Carpenters on 8-track.

The Flaw

To me, S– was the epitome of intelligence, beauty and athleticism. I looked to her for most everything a little girl needs in a mother. She taught me how to care for myself, the social graces, and comforted me when I was afraid. She had just one flaw in my eyes, she wouldn’t call me by my name, she always called me “Punkin.”

“Come sit with me, Punkin.”

“Let me brush your hair, Punkin.”

“Punkin, it’s time for your bath.”

“Wash your hands, Punkin. It’s time for dinner.” Ugh! it was as if she didn’t know my name was actually Shauna!

Mom’s Solution

One sunny day I couldn’t take it any longer. I remember sitting in front of the house bawling after S– had used the dreaded alias once again and my toddler feelings just couldn’t take any more. I’m fairly certain my sobs that day were of the sort that were not quiet but intended to get someone’s attention and sympathy. My plan worked. In short order my mom found me  and asked what had prompted such a scene from her little toe-headed girl. 

Through my tears I told her I was certain S– hated me because she wouldn’t call me by my name. If she loved me, she’d call me Shauna, not “Punkin.” My logic was infallible in my little mind – if you didn’t call someone by their name, you didn’t like them. S– called my siblings by their names, why not me, other than a complete dislike of me?

I have no way of knowing whether Mom had given it thought before that day or came up with a response on the fly, but her explanation stuck with me. She stood me in front of her, looked into my teary eyes and said that every time S– called me Punkin, it was a nickname she was using, and nicknames were a secret way of saying “I love you.” 

The relief and affection I felt in that moment still has the power to swell my feelings until my eyes leak, even as I write this. I thought then of the innumerable times I had been told she loved me through the simple word “Punkin.”

Nicknames

In the years since I have learned many things about myself and my place in the world. One of the most significant realizations has been that I love people easily. Love comes in many forms, and I seem to have a knack for feeling all of them. In today’s society unfortunately, not everyone understands that, and telling them “I love you” all the time would just be weird. As a result, many of my friends get nicknames. Not all are tagged as I feel  nicknames need to make sense in order to “stick.”  But I’d be willing to bet I use more nicknames than most people.

I don’t know how other people explain nicknames, I know many are bestowed with negative intent, but I happen to think my Mom’s definition is the best. Maybe if everyone viewed nicknames as I was taught, this world could become a little more friendly to all.