The weekend aid and I have been given name tags to wear. IB admitted to MR the other day that she does not know our names, and that bothers her. I wondered if it would be embarrassing for her, this sudden name tag thing, or if MR had told her we'd be wearing them. As I was putting mine on, I told her the story of how, when I was a kid, we were given the assignment of researching our names...most of my schoolmates were named after saints...I, according to Webster, was named after a breed of cattle in Ireland. I was horrified, and confronted my Dad with all my tiny power. That night, he came into my room, turned on the light, and sat on my bed, National Geographic in hand. He had an article about Ireland, and on the page was a gorgeous photo of the Ring of Kerry. "That, Sunshine, is how you were named...after the prettiest part of Ireland".
IB and I talked a bit about our dogs, how they had no idea what their names were, or ours, for that matter. For all Molly knew, her name could be Dolly, or Sweetheart. My Bubba could just as easily be Fluffer-fart....but our dogs KNOW US....they know us like no humans could possibly know us. Whether or not they know our names has little to no consequence...it was a sweet conversation, this sorting out of what is important on the personal end of things. Still, I understand her desire to know the specifics. We are alone most of the time, but once a third party comes in, she should be able to refer to me.
Mon has a nice saying for this thought-thread:
We live in the heart. Our brain just takes care of the details.
No comments:
Post a Comment