What's in a name

My son, Squirmy, is only a couple months short of his second birthday. And I take great comfort from his desire to hang out with his Daddy.

We're traveling in England this month, and I'm splitting my time between the office here and hanging out with the family, visiting friends. Squirmy's doing great with the travel, and enjoying playing with all the lovely British children and in the beautiful gardens. But when I make it back from the office, he grins, laughs, and makes a bee line for my lap, to insist that I spend the next 20 or 30 minutes playing with whatever toy that has grabbed his attention at the moment.

This morning, as I tried to quietly move around the room getting ready to head out to work, Squirmy stuck his head up out of the covers and groggily rubbed the sleep from his eyes with his fists. When he saw that I was already dressed and had my laptop over my shoulder, heading out, he scrambled out of bed, grabbed his shoes, and tried to put them on to go with me, pajamas and all. I sat and held him for a few minutes, and then had to sadly pass him back to my Bride to deal with his screaming as I left.

I couldn't ask for a better Father's Day present from my youngest than his clear and innocent displays of love.

Why, then, I ask you, can he get his sister's name, our St. Bernard's name, label the chickens, tell you when he wants his choo-choo, or juice, or milk, or needs to change his clothes, or say the name of the dog he was just introduced to five minutes before, but the little sh*t still calls me 'Mommy'?