Cheese Wiz

My grandsons call me Giz, it was my nickname during those long-ago baseball playing days. The grandboys like it because the name differentiates me from the other two grandpas in their life. Lately, the youngest one, who is four, has taken to calling me Gizzie. He’s cute and funny. He could call me anything and it’d make me laugh.

A few weeks ago, Gaga, yep that’s what they call their grandmother, the two boys and I were playing Mouse Trap. The name pretty well describes the game; involves building a mouse trap, to catch the mouse, and using cheese. The boys are seven and four, so we were playing a very modified version of the game. As the game digressed, we resorted to making up rhyming names for cheese. As you might know, seven and four-year-old boys will laugh at about anything. At one point, I mentioned Cheese Wiz, and then the youngest called me “Gizzie, the cheese wizzie.” Good lord, they burst out in that pure child laughter from the gut that is unforgettable and undeniably fun. I laughed so hard at their new name for me, I almost peed my pants.

I’ve had a variety of nickname’s or titles in my life. Coach, Skip (which is a variant of coach), Dr. Stafford, and Father Gil. I never cared much for any of them. The last one I detested, primarily because I knew most people who used the moniker were throwing their daddy issues on me, or worse, their projections of God. Over my fifteen years as an active Episcopal priest, I implored people to just call me Gil. Which set me up to really suspect those who wouldn’t, as having serious unconscious projections. Of course, I really wondered even more about those priests or other leaders who insist on being called by their special title, earned or otherwise. What kind of unconscious insecurity issues are they caring around? Not that I don’t have plenty of my own issues, I just don’t want them attached to my name.

So please, just Gil, or Giz, or Gizzie, the cheese wizzie.