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The “No Such Thing as a Crazy Baby Name” Theory

People are giving their babies weird names these days. We all know this. It is an epidemic.

Openly, we don’t acknowledge it. But privately, among friends, we talk about it.

It’s a release for us. It’s confirms that we are not the crazy ones.

Right now, you’re probably already thinking of 2 or 3 weird names you know that other people have recently named their kids.

But here’s the thing. We just have to be okay with it.

Because that peculiar baby name is an expression of that parent’s identity and their perception of their own creativity.

And sure enough, you could have this same conversation with someone who named their kid something obscure like, Cheezeburger Rex, and that parent would instantly agree with you that other parents name their kids stupid names.

That parent of Cheezeburger Rex (which let’s assume is a girl’s name just to make this scenario more believable for a crazy name) would predictably say something like this:

“I know, right!? I know this one mom who named her son Spikey Purple. I feel so sorry for that kid!”

So maybe, in theory, the rest of us “normal parents” should assume that we are the ones who named our kids strange names?

I call this the “No Such Thing as a Crazy Baby Name” theory.

It’s inspired by one time when a guy told me, “There’s no such thing as a stupid tattoo.”

I could easily argue that it might not be the best decision to get a Chester the Cheetah neck tattoo. But if that guy embraced the tattoo as part of his identity, making it a way to express himself; to him, it’s not a stupid tattoo. Instead, he’s proud of it.

Similarly, it’s this way with baby names too.

So the next time I hear a parent proudly tell me that their newborn son’s name is “Dracula Titus” or their daughter’s name is “Intelligence Martin”, I know how I’m going to respond:

“That is the perfect name! It’s so creative, too. But that makes sense, because you’ve always been such a creative person. Well congratulations! (He/she) is so adorable!”

By doing so, I am able to give that parent confirmation that they chose a name that accurately reflects their own identity as the parent.

Their identity; not mine, not yours.

And, for better or for worse, the identity of their child, as well.

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Dear Holly: Wearing Mommy’s Shoes, but Not in an Ironic Way

1 year, 4 months.

Dear Holly,

As I was working on the dishes in the kitchen, I heard Mommy calling me over from the bathtub in our bathroom, “Nick, come quick! And can you bring your camera?”

I entered our bathroom to find you stepping out of our walk-in closet, with a serious look on your face, as you carefully took each step while wearing a pair of Mommy’s shoes.

To be clear, you weren’t doing this to try to be funny in an ironic way. No; instead, you had simply taken it upon yourself to be like Mommy. Why shouldn’t you be able to wear Mommy’s shoes and walk around just like she does?

It never crossed your mind that her shoes are a much larger size than yours are. Nor did it matter.

You just kept strutting back and forth across the bathroom floor, while your family watched in amazement.

Yes, I have to say, it was quite impressive seeing you move in those shoes!

I don’t remember you falling, even once. Nor did you smile or laugh, even once.

Please know that Mommy, your brother Jack, and I were all laughing the entire time. You were unfazed.

Shoes are a big deal to you. It’s actually part of our daily routine that you walk to the shoe closet in the living room each morning and tap on the door, then you do a signature grunt which translates as, “Daddy, aren’t you going to open the door? I have to put my shoes on.”

Without fail, you always attempt to put the shoes on yourself, first. You sincerely struggle to figure out why they won’t just magically slip on, as you place them upside down on the soles of your feet.

Yeah, you love shoes. Who cares if they’re really Mommy’s? You’ve now proven that won’t hold you back.

Love,

Daddy

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This is 36: How I Got Locked Outside of My House While Accidentally Wearing a Mustache

Tuesday afternoon my wife took our kids out to run an errand. We all had the day off, since we had just returned from our vacation to Florida. I decided to stay home while they were out, as it would give me about an hour and 20 minutes of uninterrupted time to finish unpacking from our trip.

The first order of business was actually to shave my beard. I had made a point not to shave while on vacation- just one less thing to worry about in my attempt to relax for a week in the sun.

I already had several days’ stubble before we even left for Destin, so by the time we got back nearly a week later, I had a decent beard going on.

But before I shaved it off, I decided to shoot a quick video for one of my YouTube channels, which caters to young men who are freaking out about seeing the first signs of hair loss. (Yes, I make a supplemental income from that; currently about $50 a month.)

I wanted to make a video which made it seem like people were demanding I grow a mustache, which is hilarious, because obviously a white guy under the age of 40 who isn’t a cop can’t get away with wearing a mustache.

So I shaved off everything but the mustache and walk outside, where there was better natural lighting, and began shooting the video; which again, was a complete joke in itself. I like to keep my 1500 YouTube subscribers on their toes.

 

But after I recorded the video, I realized I had locked myself out of the house. I knew it would be more than an hour before my wife came back home with the kids.

Then down came the rain, accompanied by some light thunder and lightning. And I was barefoot too.

At least I was able to find shelter on our covered front porch. Before my phone battery died, as I was down to about 15% at this point, I figured I might as well commemorate the occasion with a video explaining, behind the scenes, what had happened.

So there you go. That’s how I ended up locked outside of my own house, in the rain, barefoot, while accidentally wearing a mustache.

This is 36.

 

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This is 36: My Back Yard is Constantly Littered with Plastic Grocery Bags Filled with Poopy Diapers

It makes perfect sense, I’m sure. Actually, I’m confident that my story is not unique. It’s pretty simple and (assumedly) universal, really:

When our 1 year-old daughter has a poopy diaper, we reach for a plastic Kroger bag from underneath the kitchen sink, using it has an insulator for the smell. Then, without fail, I open up the back door and toss it towards the garbage bin near our fence.

Every couple of days, I have to take out a big bag of trash anyway. That’s when I pick up the 2 or 3 bags of poop to place them in the garbage bin.

What’s the point in walking out to the garbage bin every single time my daughter has a dirty diaper? That doesn’t work for the lifestyle of the Shell household. It wouldn’t be prudent.

On a daily basis, when we’re all home together, my wife is constantly running around the house in the midst of cooking meals and doing laundry, while I am constantly entertaining and occupying not only our daughter, who isn’t quite walking yet, but I am also doing my best to make sure our 6 and a half year-old son is keeping himself productive in some sort of activity.

It’s not worth the time to run outside for the sake of a dirty diaper that is already inside of a plastic bag. I’ve got too many duties that relentlessly need my attention, inside the house.

Besides, our yard is fenced in. It’s not like the neighbors can see the dirty diaper bags; not unless they specifically go upstairs in their homes then look over to our yard.

That would just be nosy.

Therefore, it remains one of our family secrets.

No one can see, so no one can know.

It’s not like I’m posting pictures of the dirty diaper bags on the Internet, bringing attention to it.

This is 36.

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Dear Jack: That Time You Secretly Decided to Be a Nerf Sniper at Zeke’s Birthday Party

6 years, 5 months.

Dear Jack,

Last Saturday afternoon, our family attended your classmate’s 6th birthday party at his family’s house. Mommy and I held Holly, while we sat on the covered back porch, along with the other parents.

Pretty early on into the party, Zeke’s dad brought out the Nerf mini dart guns for all the kids to run around in the back yard and shoot each other, while all the adults casually watched the chaos.

After a few minutes of the 6 year-old version of the Hunger Games taking place, I looked up from holding your sister’s hand as she walked along the patio furniture, and saw you quietly standing there on the outside of the guard rail, appearing to take aim.

I was right.

Because then, I saw you pull the trigger, hitting one of your friends in the chest as he ran across the yard. He had no idea he had been hit by the Nerf Sniper.

Then I muttered to you, “Jack, are you standing up there and shooting them without them knowing what you’re doing?”

You smiled so sneakily and shook your head, yes.

Obviously, I was proud of you. After all, it was a free-for-all. There were no rules. No one said you had to stay down in the line of fire and get shot like everyone else.

Good for you, assuming the role of the sniper.

Your idea of fun wasn’t running around, laughing with your friends. Instead, your idea of fun was winning. This was not a game at a birthday party. This was war.

By the time the others figured out what you were doing, it was time to go inside for pizza and cake.

I imagine a few years from now when your friends start having laser tag birthday parties, you’re definitely going to have an advantage.

Love,

Daddy