Terms of Endearment

A short and sweet reflection on childhood nicknames

Our house has been getting a makeover in pink and red kitsch since Leah decided Christmas was over on January 1, mostly courtesy of our local dollar store. Our decor has been all about love for a month or so, which I have mostly ignored in favor of more serious events, like the College Football Playoff.

A new item caught my eye last week:

For Leah, that’s kind of a personalized sign, as I almost always refer to her by a rotating handful of nicknames — ‘Sweetheart’, ‘My Sweet, and even ‘My Precious’ — which are far more saccharine than anything I use to refer to her sisters. They’ve always gotten monikers rooted in humor, because that’s generally how we roll. One look at this dollar-store sign sent me down a familiar, guilt-infused rabbit hole. Do my three children feel equally loved?

Of the three, Leah is the one I’ve gone toe-to-toe with most often, her strong will clashing with mine in sometimes epic showdowns. Raising an unreliable speaker whose wiring is completely different from mine is not for the meek. Leah was the child I was most likely to misunderstand, and our definitions of appropriate behavior were often quite far apart. Negotiations could become a bit tense. Childhood is not a democracy, and while I wanted to be a benevolent dictator, there were times my oldest subject simply wasn’t having it. With a couple of decades of 20/20 hindsight to draw from, I can identify situations I would have handled differently, and others I wouldn’t change. Some standoffs had nothing to do with autism, and everything to do with my desire to make all three of my children into decent humans. Leah’s nicknames were a deliberate choice, meant to reinforce in calmer times that she is beloved..

I wondered if her sisters noticed the difference, and if it bothered them. I spent their upbringing trying hard to prevent Leah’s needs from overshadowing theirs. Had I blown it after all?

(There is zero point in going partway down a rabbit hole. It’s important to see it all the way through.)

My nickname choices for Leah aren’t rooted in greater love. Just a greater need to remind her that she is loved. But did her sisters see it that way? Luckily one of them was nearby at the very moment I needed reassurance.

She laughed and said, “I never noticed until you brought it up.” Mom guilt is replaced with self-congratulation. It takes talent to create an issue where none existed.

I asked Leah if she thought of me calling her My Sweet when she bought the sign. Maybe that’s why she was drawn to it? She said, ‘Uh-huh.’

This is not a particularly satisfying answer. In Leah-speak, ‘uh-huh’ can mean yes, but it is equally likely to mean ‘I’m agreeing so that you’ll stop talking,’ or even ‘this YouTube video is more interesting to me than you are right now.’ Nonetheless, I know that Leah is perfectly happy to answer to any of the flowery names I choose to call her. I’m reminded every time we end up in a standoff. I almost always fall back on the classic technique of full-naming her, paired with my very best stinkeye. I never get past ‘Leah —’ before I receive an equally firm correction.

She looks me in the eye and reminds me, ’You mean Sweetheart.”