The Name Game

My son entered the first grade this year, and though I was prepared for the onslaught of homework, the difficulties adjusting to "desks" and the myriad of other inevitable first-grade concerns, I was completely unprepared for the name issue.

Having the shortsightedness of placing him in a class with another "Max" I suppose I set myself up for this disaster. Mrs. M, seeking a quick solution, asked if either had an alternative name or nickname they sometimes used.

I guess I should be grateful that he didn't bring up "You Little Cretin," an affectionate name he's heard once or twice at home. He was wise enough not to mention "Pumpkin" either.

At any rate, He informed me somewhere around the end of the first week that he'd changed his name to "Alex."

Now, I have no problem picking issue with poor choices with respect to gravity, electricity, and occasionally junk food bearing a deceptive "fruit" name, but far be it from me to mess with a kid's identity issues. Even MY kid's. Frankly, I was surprised he didn't choose "Batman". And so I conceded.

Little did I suspect that 1) it wouldn't be a passing fancy, and 2) that I had reached the age of senility about 30 years ahead of schedule.

I have a hard enough time at home opening doors the correct direction, never mind remembering which kid is which. Once you have more than one - trust me on this one - they're pretty much interchangeable. At least in the average mother's lint-trap mind.

I'm fairly used to calling him by two or three names before I get it right, as in "Abby…uh…Max…Whoever you are…GET DOWN FROM THERE!" Now with the addition of another name, by some quirk of physics, the dog got thrown in there, and now he's: "Abby…Max…Ralph…Alex… Whoever you are…GET DOWN!"

Someday, this could be the difference between life and death. Are you following me?

Throw into the equation that now the poor OTHER Max is always getting the fallout from my notes-to-the-teacher. The poor kid is probably getting extra spelling lists every other day.

If I ever talk him into changing it back, poor Mrs. M is going to be even more confused that I've been. But then, I figure she practically asked for it - she CHOSE to teach first grade, for crying out loud. That automatically qualifies one as a masochist, doesn't it?

In the mean time, I've taken to putting a nametag on him. Not all the time - just around the house, and for casual family get-togethers. His sister and the dog get to wear them, too.

I wonder why I didn't think of this sooner.