My Boy, Gal

Have you ever questioned your parents' motivation in naming you?

My Boy, Gal

“Oh, it’s not a common name, no, but I think it holds a certain elegance in its tone, wouldn’t you agree?” Eleanor Gimble continued to stir the cookie batter with a large wooden spoon, pausing to tap it on the side of the bowl before offering the spoon for her son to lick. Her son’s question, while not totally unexpected at some point, nevertheless took her unawares. The ten-year-old, normally not given to inquiry on any subjects that didn’t relate directly to his favorite team or players, had recently started to ask questions about many subjects; some harmless enough, Eleanor figured, and others more troublesome. “Why do you ask?”

Taking the spoon from his mother, the boy stared at it closely before putting it into his mouth. “Mom, is cookie batter supposed to move in the spoon?”

Eleanor Gimble grabbed the spoon from her son, carrying it to the kitchen sink. With a finger, she flicked at the batter, grumbling under her voice, “Damn ants.” Handing the spoon back to him, she continued, “Honey, is everything okay at school?”

Still looking at the spoon, he pointed at a speck and held the ladle out to his mother. “Is this ant poop?”

Taking the spoon, she grabbed her reading glasses off the counter and put them on the end of her nose. Pretending to inspect the spoon, she licked the spoon with a long lap of her tongue and muttered, “Hmmmm… Eeee-ooouuuu… I do believe it is!” Then, she put her free arm around her son’s shoulders and mockingly tried to force the spoon back into his mouth. “Here, help me get rid of it before the health inspector gets here!”

Arms flailing and chairs falling over, the ensuing wrestling match lasted only seconds, with mother and child laughing hysterically and hugging each other. A few seconds later, Eleanor Gimble set a chair back on its four legs and stared at her son. “Tell me what’s wrong, pretty please?”

Bashfully, the boy avoided eye contact. “I—, I— oh, Mom, I don’t like my name!”

“What’s wrong with your name? It’s a perfectly good name. Most boys would be proud to have such a wonderful name. Galileo discovered… um… well, he discovered something pretty scientific, I’m sure. He was a great thinker. Don’t you want to be a great thinker someday?”

“Galileo, Mom? You think ‘Galileo’ is a wonderful name? Why not Copernicus or Von Leeuwenhoek? When was the last time you were in the fourth grade, for Christ’s sake?”

Grabbing both of the boy’s arms, her fingers dug into his flesh. “Galileo Gimble, you apologize immediately! I’ll not have you taking the Lord’s name in vain in this house, do you understand me?”

“Yes, ma’am… I’m sorry”, he answered, contrition steeped into his tone.

“I accept your apology, but see that it doesn’t happen again. If your father hears you talking like that, you’ll be losing some privileges. How about a nickname? What about ‘Leo’?”

Galileo gazed at his mother with a look that could only be called incredulous. “Leo… you think ‘Leo’ is a good nickname? Tell you what, Mom, why don’t you just start calling me ‘Gal’? I’ll be the class homo in about two seconds… if I’m not already! Tell me, how did you and dad come up with that name? Were you stoned or what?”

Immediately Galileo Gimble understood that he’d crossed the line. His mother’s face, now frozen in a ghastly, open-mouthed mask, left no doubt that she considered the question/allegation beyond the scope of any conversation a ten-year-old boy ought to be having with his mother. She said nothing, but her wide-eyed stare caused young Galileo to slowly start backing away from her, his prelude to the upcoming sprint he’d need to escape her grasp. Her accompanying gasp and scream burst the bubble of intrigue and brought him to full gallop as he ran out of the kitchen, hoping the back screen door wasn’t latched. If he could make it out the door, she wouldn’t chase him past the back yard.

With the speed and agility God seemed to grant to all pre-teen smartasses, Galileo successfully negotiated the twenty feet from the kitchen table to the back door, his mother nipping at his heels, still screaming and cursing at him to stop immediately— an instruction that she may just as well have issued to the table or the toaster, because by the time she reached the back screen door, it slammed shut and she was treated with the view of Galileo’s form jumping their back fence.

Dabbing at her face with the dishtowel still draped over her shoulder, Eleanor Gimble took the time to compose herself before taking another step. I’m gonna beat that boy like a rented mule. Then, after taking a few steps back toward the kitchen, a smile sneaked out and by the time she reached the table and pulled out a chair, she had to cover her face in case the little bastard had sneaked back onto the porch, and she laughed like she hadn’t laughed in the last ten years. Stoned, indeed.