George-ous the Porge-Ous

Back when I first entertained the concept of naming a baby boy George, I secretly swore I would never ever call him Georgie Porgie. I have an older sister, Georgie Lynn, and I spent Plenty of energy in my growing-up years defending her name against mean people and that stupid Nursery rhyme. I would absolutely not tolerate it than, I will absolutely not tolerate it now.


Except I do. We all do. The George jokes haven't stopped since our own personal George showed up. He has all kinds of nicknames. He answers to all of them. The latest is George-zilla, because he is a weapon of destruction (complete side note, but not entirely off topic: go here, see the photo, read the blurb underneath, laugh along with me.).

But mostly? We call him Georgie Porgie. I am so sorry, Sister Dear. I just happened. I fought it half-heartedly, but I was the only one who put up a fight. My husband, my children, our friends, and large sections of our extended family caved with no resistance.


Worse still, it has morphed to just Porgie. And also Porge. I secretly fear it is only a matter of time before he becomes Porky the Pig.

And comes running when you call him.