I've told this story 138 times, but I feel I should engrave it on the Interweb before it escapes my feeble memory.
Miss M and I were in bed one Sunday morning, talking about the upcoming arrival of Baby SAM. We've already decided what we'll be naming him, but since we hope to keep it a secret just a little while longer, we haven't told the chattiest member of the family what our plans are. We're always trying to look for ways to ease her into the idea that it won't be Jack, despite what she's been telling people for the last few months. And so we now join our conversation already in progress ...
SAM: So, what do you think we should name the baby?
MISS M: Jack!
SAM: Okay, well, you can call him that if you'd like, but mommy and daddy might call him something else.
MISS M: No! His name is Jack!
SAM: Okay, okay, what about a middle name? What should his middle name be?
MISS M (ponders): Cass.
SAM: Yeah? Cass? Hmm. Jack Cass. Jack Cass. Jacka ... Miss M!
And then, despite our ongoing efforts not to give too much notice to her less than polite phraseology, I absolutely dissolved in giggles. And then swore she wasn't allowed to ride in the car with her dad anymore.
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