Why we end up calling him this, or T-Dog or Teeny Tiny Teddy, I have no idea. These names just come out of my mouth in the most chaotic of times when the phone is ringing, I'm trying to watch some random clip on the Today Show, Teddy is screaming, Carly is TALKING LOUDLY ABOVE EVERYONE ELSE telling me that Ga's birthday is coming up and he would like a chocolate cake and Sully is sniffing dangerously around the peanut butter jar left open on the counter. Teddy takes priority when I am in triage mode during these daily events. (Of course, triage is another one of those skills that stay-home-moms all have on their imaginary up-to-date resumes, you know, the ones that they swear they will fire off to 100 employers the next time someone screams or throws food on the floor). As I scoop him up, and try to find humor in the situation, I find myself singing the wrong lyrics to any tune that comes to mind or, in the case of Teddy, calling him some ridiculous name. I'm explaining this so that, one day, when he is 12 or something and he can't shake one of these ridiculous nicknames, he will understand.
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