It Helps To Remember Your Own Childhood Now And Then

Last Friday I mentioned in passing that my son sometimes calls me Rob.

To be clear, I neither like nor encourage this, but I’ve decided to not make a big deal about it because I do understand why he does it.  Everybody else around here calls me Rob, so I can see how it makes sense to him that he should too.  I know he doesn’t mean to be “disrespectful” when he does it, so I’ve decided to roll with it while encouraging him to call me something else.

It’s not an ideal solution, but I prefer it to the other options I see for dealing with this:

1.  He’s calling me Rob because he’s imitating the other people in the house.  If I got them to call me “Daddy” instead of Rob, he’d almost certainly follow suit.

But I don’t want to be called “Daddy” by somebody who’s not my child.  (Feel free to make your own “Not Being Into That Sort Of Thing” joke here if you like, but for a change I’m serious.)

2.  I’m perfectly capable of making a huge deal about him calling me Rob and putting the fear of me into him until he stops it once and for all . . . within my earshot, at least, and therein lies the rub.

Aside from this option being unpleasant for all concerned, there’s enough important issues I have to draw the line on with him, I neither want nor need to waste my authority with him by taking a stand over something so blatantly trivial.  I remember enough adults (teachers mostly) from my childhood who did that, and I still remember how that went.  It made them look petty and pathetic, and it certainly didn’t make me “respect” them.  At best it meant I simply didn’t express my scorn for them so they could hear it . . .

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