You want to call me What?

As a child and well into my twenties, I have been the proud owner of many different nicknames. From the uniqueness of "Thunder Thighs" which pertained to my speed skating abilities, to the cruel yet standard "four eyes" which related to my need for glasses, I have carried my head high knowing that these names were what made me . . . ME!

No, I did not enjoy being called "Four-Eyes" or "Geek;" these names really hurt when I was younger. As I grew older and more mature, I came to understand that these names were the result of children whose parents seemingly never taught them any better.

I do have one nickname which has followed me well into adulthood and to understand its origins, I must tell the story in two parts.

My older brother, Lyle, for whatever strange reason, found it impossible to say my name when he was younger. I suppose Barbara is a real mouthful when you are only three or four years old. His solution to this problem was to call me something else. Nobody knows where he came up with the name, and it certainly took them all a while to figure out what he was saying, but by the time people finally figured out that he was calling me "Dottie," it was too late to change it. The name stuck!

While the first part of my name was all my brother's doing, I must take personal responsibility for the origins of the second part. (At least as much responsibility as I can considering I was two or three when the next part came into being.) I was one of those children who faced many challenges long before I understood what they were. By the age of two, both my hearing and my vision had been on the receiving end of surgeries and thus, mostly fixed. I did, however, have one problem which just wouldn't go away. No matter what the adults tried, or how many different adults suggested solutions, my parents had a difficult time trying to toilet train me. (Yes, I'm okay now! ) No matter what the adults did, or how many creative solutions they came up with, I just did not want to go. I spent many an hour perched upon the pot, waiting for the blessed moment to arrive when nature would visit so that I could get back off the pot and go and do whatever two year olds do. Alas, sometimes I would be there so long that I would succumb to the urge to nod off and would end up sleeping on the toilet. I swear I am not making it up and there are several family pictures floating around that will prove that this happened.

So, what was my nickname? You guessed it . . . Dottie on the Pottie.

Nobody ever called me Dottie on the Pottie any more, but I do still get called Dottie on that odd rare occasion when a relative forgets that I'm an adult now.