Why Don’t You Ever Say My Name?

I’m standing in the hallway listening to my son tell his stories before bed. He stutters through his words to find the right ones to explain something his imagination implores him to get out in that very instant. I say “goodnight” as I thought he was done, but as often is the case, he had one last question:

“Daddy, why don’t you ever say my name?”

There are several ways I could have processed this innocent yet wise-beyond-his-five-years-of-age observation. It did level me for a few seconds, as I waited to see if my wife had put him up to it because she knows his name began to carry the same weight as mine from the moment we picked it. She hadn’t, and I came to learn he had already asked her the same question before naptime earlier in the day. 

I looked at her for a few more seconds, sort of both disarmed and helpless. I didn’t want to have to answer but I didn’t want it to become one of those defining moments that you wish you could get back. That is how it felt. I couldn’t even move from the doorway. I also felt was that there was only one response. 

“It gets stuck in daddy’s throat and is hard for me to say.”

His response? “Well, just go like this daddy…” as he clears his throat like we taught him to do when there is a frog in it. 

His observation is spot on. I have probably said his name less than fifty times in his five years of life. We had an initial conversation when we chose it—would I be able to say it? But that never factored into our decision. If you have read Every Waking Moment, then you know the meaning of his name carries a certain symbolism that he has more than upheld.

The truth is this would have buried me if I had not been actively trying to say his name more. I have been catching myself in moments with those who know him or know of him, replacing “my son” with the struggle through his four-letter name. 

“What’s his name?”—three words from the delivery room that have haunted me since. I struggled then and each time after, in nearly the same gearing up fashion as I do on mine. 

After he closed the door to his room, I fought off the flashbacks to similar struggled moments to identify him to others. But they didn’t stick. Not even the daily ritual during the COVID-19 pandemic when I had to call his daycare from outside to tell them I was there to pick him up. I’m not only hardened to falling victim to this kind of emotional and cognitive overwhelm, but I have processed too many moments like these in his stuttering journey over the two years to take this one to heart. 

I have had more reps than one should have to endure, and, as with my own processing, “tomorrow” is always a fresh start to change the narrative. I literally wrote this the morning after it happened to work through would-be-defining-moments as they happen and not let them settle in as flashbacks. 

And begin to use this motivation in my favor. My real response to his question is to say his name more, to him. To become someone who says his name to him, in the hope that when the frog inevitably makes him hesitate or avoid, he remembers dad put in the extra effort to clear his throat.