Don’t call me baby. No, really don’t.
It all started with my mother. I’ve never called her Mum. Don’t get me wrong, I’m her flesh and blood, but she was a very young, hip mother and she wanted to stay as hip and young as possible. Her family nickname was Sally which I shortened to Sal. Her real name is Sarah (which she uses now she’s a big businessperson) so it’s even more confusing. So Sal to me equals Mum.
Perhaps because of this I’ve always had a bit of a thing about names, and a kvetch about the wrong ones. Never call me baby. Or even worse “bebe”. I will go for your eyes.
The moniker “sir” always makes me wince. Kate used to call me “dude” in texts until I dutifully informed her that she sounded like a ninja turtle. I’m equally not a “mate.” Or a “bro.” Or a "pal."
However, I do call a select few people “babycakes”, but only in a very post modern kinda way.
But I’ve just become an Uncle, and even though the kid’s only a few months old and refuses to speak yet I’m really looking forward to the day when he looks up at me with those big innocent eyes and says “Uncle Drew, teach me how to smoke cigarettes.” Perhaps one day I’ll even be “Dad.”
But for now, call me Drew. Just don’t wear it out.