How I Got My Name

Last Easter, Brother Number 3, his lovely wife, and their adorable three Cuties, ages 6 to 1.5, came to visit us. Cutie #1 and Cutie #2 would wake up early every day, come downstairs in their footie pajamas, and nestle on the couch with Perfect Man and me, all cozy and warm and sweet and soft. Cutie #2, who was then just newly four years old, carried his "babies" (three stuffed animals) with him everywhere he went. He'd curl up in my lap with his babies and start a sing-song, stream-of-consciousness about what he hoped to do that day, what he thought about, things he liked. One morning, he told me all the different nicknames he had, the little cute terms of endearment his parents called him. I told him I had a nickname, too, that the name his mom called me was different than the name his dad called me, because his dad called me by my nickname. I told him my two names.
He got a wicked gleam in his eye, looked around the room for inspiration, and saw the couch pillow we were propped up against.
"Your name," he said, inhaling with such excitement he almost lost his breath, "is Aunt Pillowhead!'

I feigned shock and offense. "That is NOT my name!" I said. "You may NOT call me that!"
He became hysterical, laughing so hard he was choking.
"Yes!" he shouted. "You are AUNT PILLOWHEAD!"
I was appalled, and at a total loss. Speechless, infuriated. Hands on hips, brow furrowed, foot a-stomping. (Not so easy to do when seated on the couch with Cutie and three babies on your lap.)
"Hey, now!" I said, sputtering. "You cut that out!"
He was doubled over with uncontrollable laughter, completely intoxicated by his power.
"Yes, yes, yes!" he said. "You are Aunt Pillowhead!"


It stuck. And I have answered to "Aunt Pillowhead" to everyone in his family ever since. Sometimes, they even call Perfect Man "Uncle Blanket."