Bubba Duke

When my oldest child was born he was perfect, beautiful and had a difficult time figuring out how to nurse. Because I did not know all of the cool and crunchy people I do now who would have given me advice and pressured helped me to nurse my son, I ended up feeding him formula and gave up the pretense of nursing at 3 months. Once the formula hit his system he was not quite so sweet anymore, if you know what I mean. His dad immediately nicknamed him Dookey Butt. A name to be proud of.

Let me rewind a moment in time to the process of giving this kid a name. His father wanted to name him BOCEPHUS! I like Hank Jr. as much as anyone but No. Hell no. When he broke out the 2nd choice of Randall, apparently Hank Jr.’s real first name I actually liked it. It’s different, but not weird, strong without being macho. Yeah. It worked.

Now, back to Dookey Butt:
Over the years the name changed. By 3rd grade, when my gorgeous, intellectually advanced child had an existential meltdown, it had become Duke. But he knew what it meant and he pitched the biggest fit ever and not only insisted that Duke vanish into the annals of family history but that he was also changing his entire name. No more Randall Avery for him. No way. The kids sang lovely renditions of ‘Randolph the Rednosed Reindeer’ and he could only imagine where they could go with Avery (Avery Gravy anyone?). No. He was changing his name to Crash. Crash Crutchfield. I have to admit that it does have a ring to it. Similar to “Forest. Forest Gump.”

Somehow, though, I never could get behind calling the kid Crash and so he was stuck with Randall. Also around 3rd grade we all figured out that there was no way his little bro would ever be able to say the word ‘Randall’ and so began calling him ‘Bubba’. Hey! We’re from the South. And just so ya know, the little bro can now, at 16, say Randall perfectly well…but he calls him Bub.

Now not to say that my ex-husband is like a bulldog with bone or one to kick a dead horse but he sure as hell takes a long time to let go. Even now when our great looking, 21 year old, 6’5″ son comes home to visit, rumor has it that his dad looks up from the TV and says, “Bubba Duke! Whatcha doing boy?” Sometimes I’m a little jealous of his tenacity with a nickname.

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About Blue Eagle Dreamer

Shamanic High Priestess and facilitator of empowerment and healing circles for girls and women, including a monthly Red Tent Temple. BA in English, minor in anthropology. Waldorf homeschool mom. Reiki master, cranial sacral therapist, herbalist, menstruvist, feminist, epicurian.
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