By Brett Hughes (our resident Dad Blogger)
And on the seventh day, the fates created “The Daddy Mo.”
No really, I’m pretty sure we were about a week back from the hospital after our son was born. So it was about the seventh day. I don’t get all biblical without objective numerical reference points.
The origins of my fatherly nickname are baffling to anyone outside of my immediate family. Actually, check that: the name is just as baffling to the WASPy side of my family.
As with many other sources of culturally inappropriate humour in my life, the strange nickname comes from my big fat Greek in-laws (they are actually quite lean and healthy people, but I can’t resist recycling that movie joke).
Helpful nutritional aside: my in-laws consume a steady and delicious Mediterranean diet, which is the source of another inside family joke. Each and every time I ask my in-laws about the ingredients in a given dish, the answer inevitably is the same: “Lemon, oregano and olive oil.” Always. Forever. This applies to appetizer, soup, main and yes, even dessert (MAYBE add honey to the latter).
When my son was a newborn, I quickly figured out a sure-fire way to get him to sleep in my arms: pacing my apartment quietly singing Beatles songs, with him resting on my shoulder, head slightly askew. Lights out every time, just like clockwork.
My visiting (read: she is still here) Greek mother-in-law would see the sleeping boy on my shoulder and exclaim (in her “isn’t that adorable” voice) what I thought I heard as: “Oh, Daddy Mo!”
Brow-furrowing look across the room from Brett: “Daddy who-am-I, now?”
My wife laughingly explained that the Greek word for “Me” or “My” is Mu (pronounced sort of like the bovine bleat). My mother-in-law’s contracted formulation meant “My daddy!” But it sure sounded like Daddy Moe (as in Larry and Curly) to me.
And thus, the beginning of a new era in coaxing a baby to sleep: Behold The Daddy Mo!
It took me about 330 words here to provide ample context and background on the origin of this nickname. Can you imagine how hard it is to convey the same in, say, an elevator conversation? Consider:
Wife to Brett as she notes baby falling asleep on my shoulder: “Oh, look, The Daddy Mo is working its magic again!”
Elevator Onlooker: “The ‘Daddy Mo?’ What is that?”
Brett: “Well, you see, my mother-in-law is Greek, and the word in Greek for ‘my’ happens to be…you know what? I’m taking the stairs.”
Yet the name has taken on a life of its own, producing profitable spin-off subsidiaries of all stripes and varieties:
The Daddy Mo Dance (think Oppa Gangnam-style with a healthy helping of uncoordinated white person)
The Daddy Mo Hero (usually revolves around lifting heavy objects or pickle-jar openings)
The Daddy Mo Blockbuster Event of the Summer (otherwise known as me watching a flick alone while drinking a cooler instead of a beer)
Many other fathers have their own brand or method for inducing sleep in fussy babies, but none dare I say as idiosyncratic or at least as Hellenic as my own.
I’ve also become strangely attached to the nickname, even protective of its proper usage.
(Former) Friend of Brett: “Ha ha!! She called you a Daddy Moo!”
Brett: “It is THE Daddy Mo and you’ve just lost yourself a spot at the Blockbuster Event of the Summer. I’ll take that cooler back, too…”
Somewhere along the way, the nickname even became sort of cool (or as cool as any nickname can be applied to a balding 30-something dude from the suburbs).
I felt like a jazz singer in 1940s St. Louis when I heard the name, imagining myself finger-snapping and be-bopping my way to yet another successful naptime.
Under certain circumstances, I started to feel like The Daddy Mo, strangely referring to my moniker in the third person:
The toy assembly rescue mission: “Now, now…let The Daddy Mo see if he can get it to work.”
Opening a paycheque: “Now who’s your Daddy Mo? WHO??!!”
The nickname reached its logical zenith on my 38th birthday, when I received the perfect present. A vanity license plate reading: “DADDY MO.”
This creates the impression to other motorists of me as a hipster going through a mid-life crisis. The catcalls never stop when you drive around in a 1964 Mustang with a plate reading “DADDY MO.”
In the end, I’m eternally grateful to my (small, lean) Greek mother-in-law for blessing me with a nickname that keeps on giving. Now if I could just get her to wrap up her visit…
Image credit: Karen Sheets de Gracia