When my oldest son was born, we named him after my husband’s father who died five years earlier at the age of 58: William Robert O’Donnell. We immediately called him Billy, like his father had been called, but I was torn because part of me wanted to call him Robbie which would later probably become Rob — and I still harbored a crush from Rob on My Three Sons that I had watched growing up. But my husband wanted him to be Billy after his dad, and of course I could understand that. And Billy fit my beautiful blond-haired tyke perfectly. He had an impish grin and a humorous personality, and the “le” sound at the end of the name, just rolled off the tongue so easily when we would call him, or laugh with him, or yes — sometimes scold him. “Bill-y!” He was my boy. All the thousands of times I’d write “Billy O’Donnell” on school and medical forms . . .
When he started his junior year of high school, I remember one of the women at our church said that she bet Billy would soon start wanting to be called “Bill”. But he hadn’t mentioned it … Continue reading..Go to Billy to Bill by Sharon O’Donnell