It doesn't bother me.
Once I was in the City Manger's office of a small island community arguing over being charged double for our water bill for three years.
The issue was the City believed the girls rooms downstairs doubled as an apartment Sarah and I rented out for extra income.
If you have girls ... especially three of them ... there is no such thing as extra income ... girls suck it out of the air before you ever make it out of work.
Regardless, aforementioned City Manager pressed my credibility as a sayer of truth by shaking her head and signing, "And you're a Baptist Minister."
"I been called worse," I fired back.
The City Councilman sitting to my left, spun his head towards me and busted out laughing.
The Mayor, sitting to his left, shook his head and suppressed his grin.
Water bills are a big ass deal on this small island community with a Government near the size of Atlanta.
The matter was resolved out of court and we're co-existing happily ever after.
So being called names doesn't bother me.
Sticks and stones and such.
But this morning Cassidy, the 9 year old, stumbles into the kitchen, blond hair askew from her pillow, dragging her blankie, and says, "Daddy ... I mean Micheal."
It gives me pause.
I'm not or ever will be the girls "Daddy" but there are days I'm pretty damn close.
In spite of the names the girls call me ... and they call me many ... they mostly call me "Micheal" ... though sometimes it is so filled with love and appreciation ... it leaves me without words.
Only feelings.
