I Know Who You Are

Someone might have noticed yesterday, before I caught it myself and fixed the error, that I called Ralph Frank.  This happens to me all the time.  Red-headed Ralph bears no resemblance to Frank, who was Siamese, so that's no excuse.  I might be forgiven for calling Celeste Pearl because Pearl was also a grey tabby.  I frequently apologize to Inga for yelling at Tessie, but using Inga's name.  This is, unfortunately, a long-standing problem.

When the Kids were little and I wanted one or the other for something, I'd call out the whole litany of names before hitting on the right one.  At one time I thought about having their name tattooed on their forehead for quick identification and a shot at getting it correct.  But that meant I'd have to have them in line of sight, so I gave up on the idea.  In desperation, I finally started calling them all Arthur (even my daughter).  Only one of the four was offended.  "But, Mama, I'm ___________.  Don't you know me?"  "Oh, honey, of course I do.  I'm so sorry.  Now, Arthur, go on outside and play."

It's a familial thing.  I inherited it from my mother.  My confusion with a flock of Kids might be understandable, but Mother had only two daughters.  My sister had red hair, was tall, and was sixteen years older than I.  She'd married and had children of her own when I was growing up.  Still, my mother would call us by the other's name.  Like my own Kids, my sister and I had to develop a strong sense of self or wonder all our lives who in heck we were.  We quit correcting Mother; we knew she knew us.

So, my friends and family, regardless of how I may address you, I know who you are.