Guess what my daughter named her new doll. WORST. NAME. EVER.

So your kiddo gets a new stuffed animal or doll or God forbid a live animal (that will either suck because it lives for years and years and you have to take care of it or because it dies and you have to make up some stupid shit about F’ing iguana heaven to console your uncontrollably sobbing kid), and there’s that moment of anticipation when you ask the kid, “What are you gonna name it?”

Dear God, pleeeease let it be something normal. And sometimes it is. Like the time my daughter Zoey named her baby doll Ella after her friend’s new baby sister. Awww.  Or the time she went to Build A Bear Workshop (hey kid, here are 19 stuffed bears to choose from and 1 cat, and she picks the F’ing cat) and named her new cat Red Red. A little weird, but tolerable, and in her defense it was kind of a reddish color.

But then there are those other names that make you want to ask, “WTF?” Like yesterday she played that stupid arcade claw game and she won (not to sound repetitive but WTF???!!! No one ever wins that shit). But she managed to grab this stupid fluffy white stuffed cat, and guess what she decided to name it. Whitey. I’m like, are you sure? You could name it Whiskers or Cracker or Honky, but nope she’s dead set on Whitey.

cat (this fucker sheds more than a real cat)

Or when I got that stupid Elf on a Shelf and the book said it’s time to pick a name, and what did she say she wanted to call it? Christmas Light. I was like, come on kid. That’s not even a name. I’m just this little Jewish mother trying to do something that seems festive and harmless enough, and you’re going to name it Christmas Light? Why don’t we just call him Jesus for Christ’s sake?

And just when I thought I’d heard it all, a new doll arrived in our house. One of those knockoff American Girl dolls from my favorite store on earth. She’s blonde and cute, but not too pretty, which I love because our house is already full of hot naked Barbies that beat my self-esteem to death. Zoey unwraps the present and it’s love at first sight.

ME: What are you gonna name her?

The words just slip out of my mouth. “No no no, what the hell are you thinking?!” I yell at myself. Just go with the name on the box. Robyn. Robyn is a perfectly lovely, normal name, but noooo, I have to let her be all creative and shit and come up with her own name for the doll.

ZOEY: I’m going to name her Karen.

Okay, you probably only know me as Baby Sideburns and don’t know my real name is Karen because I’m not famous (And God help me if I ever am because you know that section in US Magazine that shows celebs doing “real life” things like putting gas in their car? They could devote the whole F’ing section to me. This is Karen with a poppy seed stuck in her teeth for six hours because no one told her. This is Karen eating the cheese off her McDonald’s cheeseburger wrapper. This is Karen accidentally picking her wedgie in front of a window) Anyways, my real name is Karen, so here it is again.

ZOEY: I’m going to name her Karen.

Did my daughter just name her brand new most favorite doll in the whole wide world after me? Awwwwww, my heart is melting.

ME: Zoey, that is sooo sweet. I love that you named her that.

ZOEY: Yeah, it’s the girl from Frosty the Snowman.

Of course it is. And to make it even worse, now that her doll is named after some other chick named Karen, here’s some of the shit I have to listen to all day long.

ZOEY: Karen wants her diaper changed.

ZOEY: I’m taking Karen’s temperature. (and you know where)

ZOEY:  No Mommy, Karen doesn’t want to go to the potty!!!!

FYI, Zoey, she does. Karen wants to go to the potty and sit there with a People magazine uninterrupted for like three hours. And I’m not talking about your F’ing doll Karen. I’m talking about the real Karen. The one and only KAREN in this house.

So you know what? The doll’s name is Robyn. Read the F’ing box. Ohhh, you can’t read yet? Well, I’m telling you. It says her name is Robyn. Not Karen. Because the name Karen and diaper will not be mentioned in the same sentence in this household. Not until I’m at least 80. Capiche?

If you liked reading this or just feel kind of bad for Karen, please join Baby Sideburns to see more funnyish stuff she writes.

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