The other night I wanted to know what Ken to bring a spare shirt downstairs with him and so I went to the foot of the stairs and called up in my sweetest voice, “oh, Ke-en”. Maybe I didn’t say it like that but I did consciously choose a pleasant tone because Reid has the habit of yelling for people at the top of her lungs in the sort of tone you’d use when calling a dog who has made a habit of peeing in your slippers. Reid echoed my dulcet call and I said, “That’s ‘Daddy’ to you.” With all of the calling, Ken responded and I asked him to bring Reid another shirt. On my way back to the kitchen, I heard Reid calling for “Ken Elizabef” in a singsong voice. Ken responded with a manly, “I’m Daddy” and Reid countered with “Daddy Elizabef” in the same singsong voice. Poor man. Not only is he outnumbered by females, even when the cats are counted, he is the only one in our house who wasn’t granted the middle name “Elizabeth”. What were his parents thinking?
If you’re wondering, Ken did point out to Reid that his middle name is not like ours (or Reid’s in the strictest sense since that mixup on my birth registration form has left me with “Elizebeth” as a middle name).