Now that you mention it, one of my family’s stories is about how, at the age of around six, I stood up on the couch one day and announced that I would no longer be known as “Bobby”, and everyone should henceforth address me as “Bob”. Which cracked everybody up and produced absolutely no change at all. It’s rough being six and suddenly discovering you have dignity to defend; worse when adults then address you as “Bob” in a way that makes it very clear they’re just humoring you and you’re just being soooo cute to insist on being so adorably grown up.

And so to this day I’m still “Bobby” not only to blood relations but to all the inlaws and significant others who have enthusiastically picked up the nickname. Only one of those ever asked me if I minded, but no, I reassured him, I don’t. The name is mine after all these years.

Growing up, My much older brother and sister called me “Roo” as in Kanga and Roo.

Up until this day mom still calls me Robbie.

My wife called me Frankie when we were newly wed. She came by my office one day and asked to see Frankie. It was a small office and everyone heard her use that name and started laughing and calling for Frankie. It didn’t bother me a bit but she was embarrassed by it and never called me Frankie again. I was Frank from that day forward.

Tough bunch.

Shorty.

Lemme guess: The family joke that never got old was for both you and your Dad to answer when somebody called out “Frank”, or “Bob” in my family. Everybody laughs, and then goes out of their way to call me “Bobby” to reinforce the joke.