What's in a Name

I hope everyone is sitting down: the boy has a name. I kind of can't believe it either. It is nice, though, 'cause now, when I can't find my vice grips or my circular saw, I have an actual named person to whom I can refer specifically as the one who moved my stuff. And that person would be "Miles". Frankly, I'm not so concerned about what he's up with the vice grips or the saw; I'm just glad he had a name!

Interestingly, I think the two Grandpas were beaten up and emotionally scarred by someone named Miles. Their reactions are documented here:

1. The morning the boy has been dubbed "Miles", the phone rings. It's Katie's Dad. "Hello."

"Hi", I answer. "How's Grandpa?"

"Good, thanks. How's Momma?"

"She's good. She's on the couch with Miles, having some breakfast."

There's about a 8 second pause. "Who?"

2. My Dad calls the house and Katie answers (he did call my cell phone but, due to his gifted timing, I was in the midst of doing a return at Target - a classic Minnesota pass-time).

"Hello! How's the Momma?"

"Good. I'm just here with Miles."

"Miles, huh, that's what we're going with?"

"Yep, I just decided he seemed like a "Miles". You know: kind of strong yet sweet?"

"Miles. Interesting, interresting."

See, now, I didn't just fall off the turnip truck. If you all check your North Dakotan translation guide, it would tell you that when a North Dakotan describes something as "interesting" it means they'd rather be sticking forks in their eyes or standing next to a beet plant running at high gear.

I wouldn't be surprised if they come up to me at Christmas, put their arm around me, and say, "Look, it's just that he lost us, really lost us, at Bitches Brew."

These Grandpas, who are the best Grandpas any kid could hope to have, know that I tease because I love.