Teetee Who?

Bubs has always had his own little language, a small creature who wandered into our world and decided English was optional.

When he was barely toddling, he started calling me Teetee. We never figured out if he was aiming for “Auntie” and just yeeted the first half, or if he genuinely invented it during one of his toddler-brain yapping sessions. Either way, it was his. And damn, it wrapped around my heart.

He’d say it with that soft little grin, cheeks round, eyes sparkling with excitement: Teetee. Every time it hit my ears, part of me melted into a sentimental puddle. It was mine. A name I didn’t choose, workshop, or brand. It came straight from his tiny mouth and flew direct to my soul.

But toddlers grow at the speed of light and apparently develop strong opinions about proper identification. Somewhere between snack time and hide-n-seek, he suddenly switches up on me. Looks me dead in the eye, pats my cheek like he just promoted me in a meeting, and says my actual first name…

Sir. Not the government name. Not the full legal, DMV-certified version of me. Really?

I’m proud of him. So proud I could scream. His words are landing, blooming, getting sharper. But there’s a little ache tucked behind all that pride. “Teetee” was ours. A moment in time. A baby nickname he’s outgrowing faster than I’m ready for.

I guess that’s the deal with kids: They change, and you cheer… even when your heart stays a step behind, still answering to Teetee.