(MCT) — One of the more embarrassing aspects of having children is that you meet so many people whom you know by sight, but you couldn't recall their names on a bet.
This last season, my kids played both soccer and baseball. This meant that every week I was involved with four teams that had kids, parents and coaches, few of whom I had ever met before.
Some of the parents seemed to have an uncanny ability to remember everyone's names. This only made it more embarrassing that I couldn't recall anyone's except the coach's.
"Hey, eeerrr, kid, great game!" I mutter to every player, hoping they don't notice I have no idea what they're called. Meanwhile, parents who are more observant have been cheering my kids on by name since the first day.
This is only made worse by the fact that even when I do know someone's name, I call them by the wrong ones, even my own kids, Cheetah Boy and Curly Girl.
"How's Justin doing?" I recently asked some parents I like at the ballpark, whose son had been to our house numerous times. "His name is Zachary," his mom retorted.
Oops. Well, someone on that team was named Justin.
I have resorted in fact to calling everyone "Bud" or "Chica" depending on whether they are male or female.
It makes me wish everyone could just wear nametags all the time.
Our church actually created permanent nametags for everyone to wear, which was a great idea, except we lost ours in 5 minutes.
So now, every Sunday morning we walk around smiling and talking to people I've seen every Sunday for five years, but I have absolutely no idea who they are. I've been in deep, passionate discussions with people whom I now know a great deal about except what they're called.
After you've talked to someone every week for five years, it's far too late to admit you don't know their names, especially if you have reason to think they know who YOU are.
I have resorted to poring over the pictures in the church directory, trying to find the names to match the faces. And trying to memorize names for future reference.
So, if I run into you at the park, school or the church, and I call you Bud or Chica, please don't be offended. I do it to my own kids. And, if you want to tell me your name, I probably would be eternally grateful.
Marla Jo Fisher was a workaholic before she adopted two foster kids several years ago. Now she juggles work and single parenting, while being exhorted from everywhere to be thinner, smarter, sexier, healthier, more frugal, a better mom, better dressed and a tidier housekeeper. Contact her at mfisherocregister.com.