It's Peep season again! And, as I've touched on the past two years, Gabe is a fan. It's nice to have an ally in the house, but it also means that there's a pretty open competition between he and I for what Peeps there are available. Every time he's in my office (where Peeps are stored for the staling process that turns them from mushy and kind of off-putting to slightly crunchy and glorious), he's about 90% likely to find a way to get at the Peeps and eat a couple. If we're closely watching what he's doing, he will ask if he can have one. If he thinks we're not paying attention (or if we're NOT paying attention), he'll be sneaky and find a way to reach them. Last night, Libby snapped a picture of him sneaking one off my shelf.
It has become pretty apparent that we're just not going to be able to keep Peeps in the house like I used to. Once upon a time, I'd keep a few packages of them on the shelf and nurse them for a week or two. In the last day, he's eaten almost an entire package. If we want to prevent him from being a diabetic, we're going to have to keep the sweets away from him entirely. Which makes me sad. At least I can find consolation in the fact that Peeps are sold for EVERY holiday now instead of just Easter (I'm pretty sure I even saw them for 4th of July last year), so it's not hard to find them just about every day in the grocery store. So if I'm ever jonesing, I can get a quick fix that way.
Then, this morning, Gabe was in the bathroom while Libby was getting ready for work. For some reason, the topic of conversation was nicknames that people had for Gabe.
"Poppa calls me "Buster," he informed us.
"Oh really?" Libby responded. "What do I call you?"
"Grubber," he said.
"That's right. Grub or Grubber. What does Daddy call you?"
"Damn."
"What does Daddy call you?" she repeated.
"Damn."
"I do NOT," I insisted. "When have I ever called you 'Damn'?"
I'm not sure where that's coming from. I HAVEN'T ever called him "Damn." I mean, what kind of name would that be anyway? "Come here, Damn!" Now, "Dammit," sure. I say that quite a bit. But Gabe has repeated "Dammit" quite a bit himself, so he knows the difference. To make sure he meant what he said, we asked him two more times over the next half hour what I called him and he said "Damn" again each time.
It's actually pretty funny to me. Growing up, we had an LP of a Bill Cosby stand up routine from the 70s. It was one of our favorite things to listen to. And on it he has a bit where he and his brother are being called by their father. He's calling their names but neither of them are responding because one of them thinks his name is Dammit and the other swears his name is Jesus Christ. I used to think it was a pretty funny concept growing up, but I only now am really getting it. I wouldn't be the least bit surprised if Gabe thought his nickname was either Dammit or Jesus Christ because I say those two things two or three times a day at least when I walk up on him and he's doing something openly destructive to our house or our belongings.
But just to make sure he doesn't end up thinking those curses are his REAL names, I also make sure to include his name as well. "Jesus Christ, Gabe! Stop throwing your food under the table!" "Dammit, Gabe! How many times do I have to tell you not to give Norah your cup without a lid? Now there's apple juice smeared all over the TV again!" But "Damn"? Nope. Never. It's just not feasible that I'd work it into a chastising sentence with any regularity. It's not like I'm spending my days "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn"ing around here. It's just no something I say. So I don't know where he got it from.
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