No, we did not name our child Bubba… No matter what he tells you

Once we decided to embark on our grand adventure of moving to Maryland from Georgia, we sat The Wild Things down and explained our decision to them. They had known we were thinking about moving and that a number of factors related to health care might force us to move, but we had only mentioned it in passing, this time it was official. We had picked a state and were getting the only home they had ever known ready to sell.

The Wild Things were not happy. Being understanding parents, we of course told them we knew it was hard, but there would be new things they would like, some things they would miss, and that eventually, they’d come to like the change.

Eventually can’t come soon enough. Since we moved here, the two of them have set out to make us look like the biggest hicks you ever did see. The Younger Wild Thing has a particular penchant for this. The first time we met our Realtor, we told her that we homeschooled. Without missing a beat he said “And I’m real smart, too. Mama taught me one plus one equals eleven.”

A few moments later the Elder Wild Thing adopted a Southern accent and asked “Where’s the commode, I think I need to have a sit.”

We thought they were just having fun with our Realtor, who is quite fun to harass. But no. These were the first shots in a coordinated attack.

At a recent class we enrolled him in, the Younger Wild Thing introduced himself as Bubba.

For those of you who are not well-versed in Southern Culture, or have ever wondered why Bubba is a popular name in the South, allow me to explain. Bubba isn’t a name. It is a title. Nobody names their child Bubba. In most cases, a young Southern girl is born to a family that already has a male child in it, and when she tries to say “Brother” it comes out “Bubba.”

There has never been a Bubba on either side of the family tree. We consider ourselves to be more refined than that, and we certainly never in a million years would have encouraged “Bubba” to become a thing in our house.

But here we were, the little joker of the family introducing himself as “Bubba.” And it stuck. That’s what his teacher and everyone else in the class calls him.

Mortified, my wife explained to one of the other moms the next week that he was neither named or nicknamed with such an obnoxious Southernism. The other mom informed my wife that her child had asked why in the world someone would name their kid Bubba. The mom had just shrugged and said, “Well, they’re from The South.”

Great. Just what I wanted.

Since then, The Wild Things have taken to calling each other Bubba any time they can.

Now, I would not be a proper Southerner if I didn’t say a few words in defense of the institution of Bubba. In the South, a man named Bubba is often a sign of trust. If there’s a Bubba who owns an auto shop, you know he’s going to treat you right and not price gouge you or try to get you to pay for unnecessary parts. If a Bubba owns a barbecue joint, you know it’s going to be the finest barbecue South of the Mason-Dixon line, and if there’s a Bubba in your neighborhood, he’s going to be the first guy to come help you build a new deck, assemble a trampoline, or fix your fence. He’ll even bring a six pack, of which he’ll give you two cans and he’ll handle the other four.

Now, back to my boy. The Youngest Wild Thing has had a unique since of humor since he was in diapers. In fact, when he would befoul those diapers and see my look of horror whilst changing them, he would hit me with a huge toothless grin like my disgust was his mission in life.

Once he learned how to talk, he would call me and when I would come, he would grin and say “Nee-nee, Mama!” For those who don’t speak baby, that was his way of saying “Not da Mama.” If you don’t get the reference, we can’t be friends.

For about two years I wasn’t “Daddy” or “Dada,” I was “Nee-nee.” (No, no)

He’s been dedicated to the bit for eight years now. I’ll come up to him and say “How ’bout Dada” and he responds with “No!”

He only says yes on my birthday or Father’s Day.

I tell him he and his brother have caused me to start balding and he responds with, “But who gave you that big fat belly.”

I know this sense of humor though. He comes by it honestly. The amount of time I spend roasting someone directly correlates with how much I like them (unless I actually don’t like them, so sometimes it’s a little hard to tell.) Anyway, if his sense of humor is similar to mine, he must be quite fond of me.

I should end on the sentimental note, but since this is my column and there’s no way he has the attention span to read all the way through this, I just want to say one more time — I don’t care if he tells you with all the sincerity in the world that his name is Bubba, don’t believe him. It’s part of an elaborate mutiny he and his brother have cooked up and you are an unwitting party to it. Just nod, laugh, and please don’t call him Bubba.