What’s the deal with “digger?”
He called me “digger.”
He said it loudly—almost like a curse. We looked at each other, surprised it came out of his mouth. Then I bust out laughing.
It made perfect sense: Michael is the lone two-legged male in our family—the poor guy surrounded by a wife and two daughters; each girl known for expressing her opinion, whether it is requested or not.
Early in our marriage, dealing with his lack of footing in discussions, Michael began calling me “dear.” Now, this isn’t a sweet and cuddly endearment; rather a multi-syllable version, full of aggravation and angst.
As our daughters grew older and joined in the conversation, their nickname became “sugar,” used in both annoyance and pleasure.
So that fateful afternoon, when “digger” filled the air, I knew exactly where it came from. In the heat of the moment, he combined “dear” and “sugar” into one; I must have muddled him good.
“Digger” was born out of exasperation and frustration—and to some degree, out of love.
Because of all the years building up to that one declaration, I decided to keep “digger” for myself.
I think of it as my alter ego; my mischievous twin; yin to my yang.
And every time I see “digger” displayed, I can picture the look on Michael’s face just after he said it. And it makes me laugh.