Yesterday someone asked me and several others if we ever had a nickname growing up. I shrugged and shook my head at first, remembering how hard it was to make something cutesy out of my name — Shannon. People called me “Shainer,” “Sha-na-na,” and at Christmastime “Oh, Shannonbaum, oh Shannonbaum” but none of them really stuck.
My kids all raised their hands and I nodded remembering family nicknames through the years, but I didn’t remember my own.
It came back like a ton of bricks. I wasn’t “Goody Two Shoes” or “Nark,” or “Band Geek” but something much, much worse. I had repressed it, apparently but now it came crashing down like a ton of bricks.
Oh, how I had longed to be taller and leaner like my 8th grade gal pals. What a blow it was at age 16 when my parents said the words, “No, you’re probably all done growing.”
I had the strongest kick on the swim team and it showed from my ankles to my hips.
For a moment the shame of adolescence came back to me, but my 40 something self-esteem quickly beat the crap out of it.
Then I came home, turned over the calendar page at my sink and saw this:
Thank you God for Thunder Thighs!