Pete and Repeat

“Benjamin, back up, you’re too close to the T.V.”

I find myself saying this a lot lately, but what was different about tonight was who I was saying it to; boy #2, also known as “Charlie”.

I remember as a kid always giving my parents a hard time when they would call us by the wrong name.  Of course, then, I was mainly offended because I was the only boy, sandwiched between an older and younger sister.  Even as a young kid, I was willing to empathize with my over-tired parents who had to deal with three kids, but even on their worst, most sleep-deprived days, I hoped, even by just mere process of elimination, they could differentiate between their male and female offspring.  After all, as a 13-year-old boy, it was traumatizing enough getting mistaken for your 15-year-old sister when you answered the phone.

Sidebar:  (run-on sentence warning, take a deep breath then proceed, my apologies to Br. Ruhl) “…when you answered the phone” Seriously, how old am I?  How could it be, that within my life time, occurred a time and place where it was common practice for a device, permanently affixed to the kitchen wall, that only had one “ringtone” which literally rang like a school bell, and didn’t stop ringing until it was answered, or the calling party disconnected the line.  The phone would anxiously be answered by anyone on the receiving end, typically followed by “who is this?”  because said plastic, bell-ringing device only displayed one number on its “interface”and that was  the number for poison control, on a bright, neon green sticker which you had affixed to the base in the event someone in your house mistook the drain-o for kool-aid.  Then, there you stood, like Howie Mandel, taking the call from the banker on “Deal or No Deal” while the rest of the studio audience (read: family in the kitchen) anxiously awaited news of who had called, as if it could have been the President, or the Pope, even though it was typically just Grandma or someone selling Avon products.  Still, whether it was Grandma or Avon, at 13 I had hoped my voice was low enough to let them both know it was me, and not my sister.

Where was I?  Ah, yes, not knowing my kids’ names…

It turns out forgetting your kids names has absolutely nothing to do with facial recognition and everything to do with what I believe doctors are currently referring to as “brain-turning-to-mush syndrome” (BTTMS or “bottoms” for short).

“Bottoms” occurs in the brains of parents who spend 100% of their time doing any of the following:

1.  Repeating themselves at home.
2. Threatening to not repeat themselves at home (i.e. “I’m not gonna ask again!”)
3. Repeating themselves at work.
4. Pre-apologizing for being about to repeat themself at work (i.e. “I’m sorry if I’ve already said this…”

The symptoms are maddening to read aloud.  To some extents it is the embarrassing Cousin Eddy to its medical relative, Muscle Memory.  With Muscle Memory, one’s body becomes familiar with a certain set of tasks, and therefore begins to be able to complete said tasks almost as if on auto-pilot.

With “Bottoms”, your brain is attempting to auto-complete your train of thought, based on what it thinks you are trying to say, only, it’s about as accurate as the auto-correct feature on your texting app.

So there I stood on Monday night, seeing Charlie, but saying Benjamin.

Now, when your phone auto-corrects “Jake Arietta” with “Jake Arbitrary” even the brain of a casual sports fan will cry foul, as Jake Arietta is anything but arbitrary.  Yet, as I stood there, repeating Benjamin toward a kid that was not even turning around to acknowledge me, my brain did not appear to trouble-shoot the problem.  Perhaps my brain didn’t identify anything abnormal with this string of cause and effects.

Truth be told, had it been Ben standing too close to the T.V. (which it often is) and I had been addressing him with the proper name (which I like to believe I often do) it would not have been uncommon for Ben to not turn around and acknowledge my addressing him.

Thus when Charlie didn’t respond to Benjamin, it did not deter me from repeating myself, again and again and again.  This was the learned behavior; that repetition was necessary when engaging children; that children ignoring their own name was common.

Perhaps the biggest victim of “bottoms” will ultimately be #3, a.k.a Megan, my sweet, innocent, probably-already-been-referred-to-as-one-of-her-brothers, baby girl.  By the time she’s old enough to ignore me, my brain will have been completely dissolved and whatever is left will only allow me remember Steve Bartman and most of the states and capitols thanks in large part to this song. Thus, I issue the following apology:

Dear Megs,

Please rest-assured I know your name, and that I am well aware that you are female, and in no way does my calling you by either of your brothers’- or our dog’s- names imply that I think you look -or smell- like either.  However, Daddy is terribly sick with an incurable disease that was brought on by your mother’s idea to procreate.  Truth is, Daddy used to be a lot smarter (and better-rested, and younger-looking, and in better shape) not long ago, but then things changed.  I stopped sleeping.  I started repeating myself, and well, you know the rest.  I promise I’ll try harder to say the right name, but in the event I do make a mistake, just remember, this is all your mother’s fault.

Love, Daddy

P.S.  Please back up, you’re too close to the T.V.  Benjamin.  Benjamin!