Sweeties

My family had a penchant for nicknames. From birth we were addressed with a series of names denoting affection, exasperation, a character strength or flaw. Some names were temporary, and some of them stuck. The youngest sister was “short-snort” or “snort” if we were in a hurry.  I was called “numb knob” so consistently that a younger cousin thought my real name was “nub-nub.” Another cousin was called “crash” for years thanks to his physical daring and resulting accidents. We weren’t allowed to use expletives or expletive-adjacent words (alas, “poop-head” was out) but that only forced us to be more creative.

In was a strange preparation for the schoolyard. When an elementary school bully called me “jelly belly,” I giggled and called him “monkey brain.” I was dismayed when we both got in trouble for name-calling. As a middle child I was desperate for attention but not that kind of attention. It took me a while to learn that nicknames were not always a sign of belonging and affection. In retrospect, my cluelessness probably made me a less satisfying target for the mean kids.

On rare occasions my dad would call us “sweetie.” He wasn’t a demonstrative man, so this moniker was interpreted as a rare sign of affection. He called me that on his deathbed, so I have particularly fond associations with that nickname in the right context.

As an audiologist I was occasionally subjected to inappropriate endearments. When a male colleague called me “sweetie” at work, it was creepy. And any doctor who called me that was obviously patronizing. But when a ninety-year-old patient called me “sweetie” it didn’t seem so bad. That’s a wide range of meanings for one simple word.

Another possibility just occurred to me. What if my older patients called me “sweetie” because they couldn’t remember my name? A clever solution to a problem I now have with names. Am I old enough to use it? If I say, “Nice to see you again, sweetie” the next time we meet, you’ll know why.