Annabel was solidly onboard with the name we selected for Thing 2. She even sang it to me once in the sweetest dulcet tone, telling me between phrases it was the "greatest name ever."
Oh sure, we still joke about calling him Sidewalk or Mailbox or Sharkbreath or other low-brow monikers such as Poopyhead ... but she knows the difference between a nickname and a given name. And she told me every day how much she loved her little brother, and she loved his name.
I don't know how you'd feel, but I'll tell you, for me it's a little bit of electrified magic when your first born loves the name of her soon-to-be brother. It's like an equation someone with my intellect shouldn't have been able to have figured out so elegantly.
For weeks, months even, I was a rockstar. Walking on clouds. Ready, willing and able to tackle the toughest problems -- our faltering economy, war in the Middle East, why the recycling NEVER gets put out on Thursdays. Nothing could stop me.
Then, yesterday, she pulled out my power cord ...
"Mommy, I want to call my baby Charlie. I don't want to call him that other name," a name, I might add, she will no longer say aloud.
"Honey. We're not naming him Charlie. Sorry."
My answer does not compute.
"BUT I WANT TO CALL HIM CHARLIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE."
Her sweet song has turned shrill.
"BUT I WANNA!"
"WELL, IT'S NOT YOU'RE DECISION TO MAKE!"
"WELL, I'M CALLING HIM CHARLIE."
I think through all available responses, and the elegance of my equation evaporates: Three-year-old + tantrum - tolerance / earplugs * the desire to drink copious amounts beer + bang own head against wall = an uncontrollable urge to rename HER Poopyhead.
All I'm left with is ...
"FINE. GO AHEAD. YOU DO THAT!"