What's in a 'Pet' Name?

Matt's Take: What did we finally settle on? Sugar Tits??? 

Growing up, and still to this day, my parents call each other "Honey." It was always around; it was written on every note my dad would leave for my mom on the counter in the morning or on birthday cards. It was cute, it was endearing. I guess I never really thought of it as a "thing." I didn't set out to find a nickname for Ashlee, although clearly "Ash" still isn't the one. Every time I say it, I question whether I'm deep enough in her inner circle to call her that—as if being deep inside her isn't enough. I think, for me, it was just something fun. Since we were texting each other "good morning" and "sweet dreams" every night, it just seemed fitting that it would be followed with a "sweet cakes," "sugar pie," or "sugar tits."

I don't think I ever had a girlfriend who called me a name, at least until I met my ex...and right away, we started calling each other "Babe." To the point that we never actually used each other's names when we spoke. Whether it was shouting to get each other a beer from the fridge, or "Babe, why didn't you put the dishes away?" or in the middle of a heated argument, "Babe, you're not listening to me!" It’s just what it always was. And it didn't really hit me that it was something I forgot about, or how big a part of our relationship it was, until just recently when I heard her call her new boyfriend "Babe." It was like, hmmmm... "Babe" is so innocuous, it's such a basic word, but when I heard it, I'm not gonna lie – it felt like a small punch to my gut, completely unexpected and surprising. But why? Why do I give a fuck? Who cares. Really, it's not like "Babe" is a pet name that has meaning, but it was for me, and I guess it was just the moment...one of those things that hits to remind you where you were, how much has changed, and how far you've come. I've been around her and her boyfriend a lot since then, and when I hear her call it from the other room for him to get her a beer, or in that screeching tone that hurts my ears... it doesn't bother me anymore, and it's relieving to know that she's his problem now. 

So, when I finally feel like it's time to call Ash, "Ash," or when we're old and I'm writing her love notes in the morning, maybe the right name that hasn’t stuck yet, finally will. 

But something tells me ‘Sugar Tits’ probably isn’t it.

Ashlee's Take: "Don't Call me Ash"

For most of my life, I thought pet names were like those exclusive VIP wristbands at a club—something you earned after proving your loyalty and surviving at least one emotional breakdown together. Cute names meant intimacy. Trust. A secret language only the two of you spoke.And yet? I’ve spent my entire existence side-eyeing them like a dog watching you throw away bacon.

I had exactly one nickname in my life: "Ash." Not even a cool one—just a shortcut, really. It was mainly a name my sisters called me. It was fine. But if you called me “Ash” and we weren’t close? That was my personal litmus test. Proof we weren’t actually friends. Nicknames, like pet names, weren’t freebies. They were a privilege, not a participation trophy.

I tried to think back—had I ever had a pet name with any of my boyfriends? My ex-husband? But nothing came to mind. Just my own name. And in the aftermath of my marriage, after everything fell apart, I held onto my name like it was the last piece of me that still felt like mine.

If someone called me by my married last name, I didn’t identify with it. But if someone called me "Ash," suddenly it felt like they were taking ownership of something personal—something that belonged to me alone.

When I found out my husband was sexting a mutual friend, I was seething. It wasn’t a slow-burn rage; it was immediate, unfiltered fury. In a moment of frustration, I texted her one of her own naked photos with a message about how much I loved the pictures she’d sent my husband. It felt satisfying in the moment.

Her response? An attempt at damage control, starting with, you guessed it, "Ash."Ash. As if we were familiar, casual, best-friend material. My first thought? Don’t you dare call me Ash. In that moment, I had never felt a bigger chasm between myself and another person.

Then my ex tried to apologize, throwing my name around like confetti—"Ash, just listen," "Ash, don’t overreact," until I finally snapped, “DON’T FUCKING CALL ME ASH.” And then he had the audacity to look stunned, as if he had never considered that I might not want to be called by a name that suddenly tasted like betrayal.

From that moment on, I became hyper-aware of names. I swore I would never, ever let a pet name slip past my emotional border control without full security clearance.

Fast forward to one of those “we’re totally grown-ups” phases of co-parenting, and my ex and I decide to present a united front by visiting our kids at camp. Day two rolls around, we’re having this picture-perfect dinner overlooking Lake Michigan, and my phone dies. In my infinite wisdom, I ask to borrow his phone to text my sister—Mistake #1: never borrow your ex’s phone, ever.

Just as I’m holding it, a text pops up from her—the woman who’d once sent my husband those naked photos. My old friend. Matt’s ex-wife.And there it is: “BABE,” sugary and bold on the screen. Was I over him? Mostly. But in that moment, I wanted to toss his phone straight into Lake Michigan.

I thought I’d reached my limit with pet names, but Matt—always one step ahead in this co-parenting circus—drops a story that makes the whole thing even better. Casually, he mentions that his ex used to call him “babe” when they were married. At this point, she’s no longer with my ex and has a new boyfriend, but apparently, she forgot to update her material. They’re all at a party, and she shouts, “Hey, babe, can you get me a drink?” And both guys instinctively look up, like Pavlov’s dogs with a side of existential confusion.

I tried to sympathize, I really did. But the mental image of them snapping to attention like synchronized swimmers still makes me laugh. It’s like calling out the wrong name in bed—cringe, but somehow worse. And really, does it take that much effort to come up with something new? Or maybe this is her secret genius plan: date guys give them the same pet name so she never messes it up. I see you, girl.

And Matt, the Sweet, Human Pet Name Dispenser Matt. A man who wields pet names the way Oprah gives away cars: “YOU get a babe! YOU get a sweetheart! EVERYBODY GETS A CUTIE!”Every time he called me “babe,” I physically recoiled, like a housecat being forcefully cuddled. It wasn’t that I didn’t care about him—it was that these names felt like trying to fast-forward emotional intimacy without doing the actual work.

But even after months of trying to ease into a pet name, nothing felt right. So we settled on just boring Matt and Ashlee. But the funny thing is, even without a pet name or nickname to pull at, our closeness has never felt more real.

So here I am, still pet-name resistant, But if I’ve learned anything, it’s this: pet names aren’t the problem. It’s who’s saying them.

Some people use them like punctuation—automatic, forgettable, tossed into every sentence. Others use them like tiny love notes, meant just for you. And then there are the ones that make your skin crawl, like hearing your ex call his new girlfriend the same thing he used to call you—or your skin-crawling ex calling you by your own name.

I realize that a pet name doesn’t define a relationship. If they did, I’d still be “Ash Splash,” traumatized in the trunk of a football player’s car. But the truth is, the deepest connections don’t always need labels.

But, if you ever hear me call Matt “babe” in public? Just know that he worked his ass off to get there. And me, I learned to surrender.