A name by any other name would smell as disgusting

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but I’ll be darned if silly words don’t haunt me.

Yes, it is true. I was one of the teased and not a teaser (in early life that is-- later on I was a teaser, but that is an entirely different column).

I was doomed from the start because I was I was born with the unfortunate quality of wanting to be different. In elementary school, I refused to wear anything but dresses with crinoline underneath -- until the fourth grade when I realized no one really wants to look like Nellie Olsen.

And so, I decided to change up my style and wear jeans (unfortunately my mother liked to buy jeans with embroidery across the butt which back in the 80s wasn’t exactly cool).

I was also doomed because my maiden name happens to be Bonnie Black. Looking back, I really don’t think that is such a bad name. It kind of sounds like a cosmetic line, but my peers seemed to think it was great material for a day of torment. The principal even got in on it (for real-- she called me B-squared). I now know that is because I have to “Bs” in my name, but when I was little, I thought she called me that because I was “a good girl” (terrible news for a girl who used to only wear dresses).

Yes, I was “Blackie,” “Black Bonnie” (note: I grew up in the South) and some other names that are just too painful to print.

Armed with all this namely baggage, I married a guy with the last name of Sitter( I no longer care if you know who I am). It’s a fine name if you ask me. I actually think it sounds friendly. But if I were in school, I‘m sure the kids would have oh so much fun.

My lovely daughters have never suffered from the name-calling blues, which either means they are the callers or they’ve got some mighty tough skin. Of course, it could also mean kids have evolved and stopped all this nonsense-- wouldn’t that be nice. I think I’ll pinch myself before I become completely delusional.

I’ve tried to do my part and raise three nice, empathic girls.

Unfortunately, I think there might be trouble on the horizon and it is entirely my fault.

The problem started this Christmas when my youngest daughter asked for a black baby for Christmas. I thought her choice was pretty cool.

And the squeals of delight when she unwrapped her baby were unparalleled.

There was only one problem, she refused to name the baby and called her “Black Baby,” something I felt unacceptable because I really didn’t want her focusing in on color. Plus, I will admit I didn’t exactly relish the thought of parental stares on the playground when my angel yells out,” Black Baby you be quiet.”

I decided to try to coax her into naming the baby.

“What if I called you brown-haired girl?” I said.

She shrugged, and so I decided to call her brown-haired girl-- and what I got in return I absolutely deserved.

“Brown-haired girl come here,” said.

“Well you underwear,” she said with a giggle.

I was too shocked to speak.

“You butt-cream,” she said.

We talked about good names and back names and labeling, but she just didn’t “get it” and only looked for more obnoxious names.

“You toilet water,” she said.

We did time outs and all other “California legislature approved methods of discipline,” but nothing worked.

I decided to ignore her when she called me “diaper butt” and “underwear head” and the name-calling stopped-- until yesterday.

Yes, yesterday all my troubles seemed so far away until she called me “underwear” over breakfast.

I was shocked and pretended to cry. She came down and hugged me.

“I wove you,” she said.

“You pretty,” I said,

“You lovely,” she said back.

And so, we started a nice name-calling game.

I’ve never been so proud of myself. I thought “Wow I could write a book or something.”

“You fuzzy like a cat,” she said, getting more and more creative with her compliments.

“Well you smell like roses,” I said.

“Yeah, yeah, well you a rose bush and you got sticky things on your back,” she said.

I guess this is what I get when I feel all high and mighty: bad grammar and sticky things on my back.

(This column was previously published in the Paradise Post)