Tuesday, November 25, 2008

Chuck and the Amazing Superdog

Dear Chuck,

I never thought when we named you that I'd write a letter to you starting with "Dear Chuck". But, that's what we've sorta started calling you. Your Mamaw and I got into a mini-discussion yesterday and today about your nicknames, and which ones we think are winners. Daddy has called you Duds from about day one, when you nearly ended his diaper changing career right there in the hospital. Who knew that such a sweet, innocent baby could make such a stink? Daddy sure didn't. I have called you Face more than anything, because those were my very first words to you as you were being born. Gammie likes to call you Charlotte O, after another famous lady who had O for a middle inital too; Mamaw is more partial to Little Girl or Miss C.

Nama hates all of those and secretly calls you Charlie.

Your newest nickname is a bit unusual, though it's no more strange than the others you've acquired. My friend Nick at work has a butt-load of trouble spelling your name correctly when we instant message each other at work. Who knew that Charlotte could be spelled so many different ways? Finally, he gave up, and he now calls you Chuck, because he can remember how to spell that. Because he calls you Chuck, I've started to call you Chuck, and now that's spread to your daddy. A tiny part of me desperately fears that when you're fifteen, you'll hate Daddy and me for this. But right now you're content to respond to just about anything we call you with a toothless, drool-filled grin, and we continue in our secure, new-parent knowledge that we're the moon and stars to you.

Well, next to the dog, that is.

Tug is probably your best friend in the entire world, and you are most certainly his. His whole mission in life is to make you the cleanest, safest, most giggly baby you can possibly be. When you spend the weekend at Gammie's, he is lost. When I am rocking you to sleep at night, he is at my feet, chewing happily on his bone that he dragged all the way up the stairs especially so he can have something of his in your room. When you wake each morning, he is beside your crib, ready to share your blanket, your ticklish toes, and your mashed sweet potatoes (which you kindly smear across your face and hands so he can clean them off for you). At night, when you cry in your sleep, he is nudging your door, whining frantically at me to save whatever is causing you hurt, as if I do not already want to do that enough.

I love you, sweet girl. And your little dog, too.