Sunday, February 20, 2011

A baby by any other name may not smell as sweet...

Do you know that Boo was very nearly named "Bilbo Baggins"?

Well, it was an idle threat I lobbed at his father out of sheer frustration around month number five when the man still refused to have the name discussion with me. He's a "wait and see what name sticks when thrown against a wall" and I'm the obnoxious "let's talk about every name in the name book until you wave the white flag" sort of namer.

The other possibility was naming Boo "Polamalu" as the dude was due on the very same Super Bowl Sunday that the Steelers were playing. The deal was that if the stinker hadn't arrived yet, and he happened to make his appearance on Super Bowl Sunday, it was a done deal. He came a week later and blew that attempt right out of the water. Oh, and because of his tardiness (SIX WHOLE DAYS) the turkey weighed over 9 pounds. Just in case you forgot...'cause I haven't!

Dominic hovered on "Aiden" for a minute. Not much longer than that. Then it was "Luke" (I was going to a St. Luke's Church in New Mexico at the time and lacked creativity.) Then it was "nameless" baby until inspiration struck one evening I sat outside with a lonely telescope in the front yard. St. Dominic, patron saint of astronomers. Done deal.

Andrew, well, his name wasn't at the top of my list by any means. I was all about "Griffin" and "Gabriel" and all sorts of cool, hip sounding monikers and his dad was having NONE of it. Andrew was weakly on my list and was the one name that stuck to P's wall that I didn't make gagging noises at. And there it was. Not the big epiphany either of us were hoping for, but it worked out well in the end. The name is perfect for him.

It seems easy to name a boy--your one job is to make them sound manly and tough. Distinguished and non-pansy-ish.

But, oh my lord, a girl? So many parameters you have to abide by. Nothing too froo froo, but nothing too boyish. Sweet and girly with a touch of toughness in case she's destined to be the state wrestling champ of 2028.

And we all know P's refusal to really entertain/decide on anything too early. Coupled with my ever-changing, ever-growing list of "This is totally the one! Maybe..." and it seems we're going to have another case of "Bilbette Baggins Applegate" come mid-summer.

That, and truckloads of dirty girl diapers...which I hear are thirty times worse than dirty boy diapers. Just rumors.

It's a lot of pressure, really. The chance to name your daughter (when you are a mother) is a chance to undo all the teasing, all the poking, all the wrong your own mother caused when naming you. (Not that Debra did all that much wrong, mind you, I've just always thought my name was damn boring. And common. Uninspiring. The least she could have done is thrown an arbitrary "y" or "h" in there to shake things up!)

Growing up, I wanted to be Marsha Brady. Changed my name to "Marsha" for about a week and a half. Then it was "Daisy Duke" in the summer of '84. Names are powerful, powerful tools and I've always been aware of the fact.

And now it's my turn to make the big decision for my own daughter and I'm coming up clueless. Sure, we like this and we like that...but nothing has really slapped me upside the face and shaken me yet. (Well, the root canal last week did, but that's another story that I'm still recovering from.)

Dom's contributed his part. He's still onboard for "Emily Elizabeth" in honor of his very first television crush from "Clifford the Big Red Dog." Not sure that flies with me, but it's damned cute.

And Boo? Well, he'll probably end up calling her "NO! NO! NO!" regardless of what her birth certificate says. Call it a premonition.

Onward, people...onward. Save us from Bilbette Baggins Applegate...

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