In honor of my nephew Duncan’s recent trip to New York, I am reposting a story about him I wrote a couple years ago.

I spent this past Thanksgiving in Iowa with my half sister, my half brother, their mother, my mother, my half sister’s husband and their 3 year old son.  This was all very nice until it occurred to me I was spending Thanksgiving with my father’s first two wives and their offspring.  Of course patient zero himself of this mad brood was nowhere to be found but I think that was for the best in this circumstance.

But far more important than that madness was Duncan being there.  My 3 year old nephew.  Super good stuff this kid.  I hadn’t seen him since he was under a year old and no doubt much had changed.

In preparation for his arrival, my mother and I pulled out all of my old toys from the 70’s that she has kept in giant plastic tubs in her basement.  Holy cow I had some weird stuff when I was a kid.  The toys were mostly pieces of action figures that I had obviously been taking apart in some sort of weird dark toddler ritual or disturbing attempt at home surgery.  Bits of Steve Austin and his boss Oscar Goldman.  Bits of Princess Leia and the British GI Joe, Action Man.  A leg here, an arm there, a single boot, a head…

Yikes.

But no doubt this would not bother Mr Monko, as I had already begun calling him.  (All things good, cute and small are monkeys in my world.)  And it didn’t.  He dove into the boxes of toys and chunks of toys and cars with great monkey glee.  And he very quickly uncovered some dark secrets of my late 70’s childhood.

Firstly, my Dorothy Hamill doll.  I had forgotten ALL about that.  How I had begged and whined to get one.  However, I wanted it for one reason only.  To peep up that little red mini skirt of hers.  Yes, when I was five.  Of course I had no idea what was going on up there, but whatever it was, I was VERY interested in it.  Mr. Monko had no interest in this at all.  He liked her ice skates.  The freakshow gene seems to have skipped at least one generation thank goodness.  Nor was he interested in my Marie Osmond doll.  He liked the cars and the Lone Ranger and the Batmobile.  NOT removing Marie Osmond’s purple sequined dress.  Good solid stock this kid.  Not at all like me.  Must get it from his dad.

So we had a ball.  I got to grab him whenever he got underfoot in the kitchen and go off and play which suited me great.  Grown ups are super overrated anyway.

But Duncan and I did run into two problems.  Firstly he was confused by being called Mr. Monko.  Initially he thought I was saying Mr Uncko, which confused him because of course I am the Uncle.  Then after I explained that it was short for little boy monkey (Monk-O as opposed to feminine Monk-A) he was further confused as he insisted he wasn’t a monkey at all since he doesn’t have a tail.  I had no answer for this.  His logic was sound.

Secondly I found myself alternately calling him Mr. Poo.   Weirdly, calling him Mr. Poo was the most honest expression of affection I could offer.  (I have problems what can I tell you?)  But Poo, Mr. Monko, explained to me was a “potty word”.  And my sister explained that they don’t use “potty words” outside of the potty.  Okay, fair enough.  But I COULDN’T stop calling him Mr. Poo!  It kept slipping out and each time he would cry “That’s a potty word!”  Once he even told his mother “Uncle Shawn used a potty word!”  To which she responded, “Yeah, he does that.”  She’s known me all my life obviously.

I felt terrible about breaking the “potty word” rule but Mr Poo kept slipping out.  It just felt like such a natural term of endearment for me.  So I was very torn.  Finally a brilliant friend of mine suggested that I tell him it was Pooh!  With an H!  As in Winnie the Pooh!  Brilliant!!

I ran it past Mr. Poo’s mother and she loved it.  She even gave me a pointer.  “Tell him it just sounds the same but means something different.”  Great!  I explained the addition of the H and Mr Pooh readily accepted it.  In fact later that night at dinner, Mr. Pooh referred to himself as Mr. Pooh and his father told him it was a “potty word” to which he responded, “No daddy.  With an H.”  YES!

Duncan and I also came to another agreement.  As Mr Monko Pooh can clap his little feet and pick up pieces of banana with his toes, he must be at least part little monkey.  Even without the tail.

– Shawn E Milnes

Related Links: