Confession: My husband and I didn’t have a name for our daughter when she was born. Not that we hadn’t tried to come up with one—it was quite the opposite. There were many rounds of back-and-forth and many heated arguments, such as:
Me: These are my top five choices.
Him: Nope, nope, no way, nope, never. How about Kami with an ‘i”?
Me: Are you being serious right now? Is that a joke?
Etcetera.
It was our least favourite conversation. We could agree on cloth diapers, schooling, discipline, that the MamaRoo was the most ridiculous item ever (we were so wrong—it’s genius), but naming the child was an all-out war. As my due date drew near, I became a little panicked.
I insisted that we set up baby-naming sessions, where we’d each come with ten names and discuss, reserving the right to veto the Chalupa Batmans of the bunch. This backfired, as my spouse rejected every single name I had been lovingly collecting since puberty. (Don’t all girls do this? No? Okay, whatever.)
My most cherished names were cut down in milliseconds: Lillian, Ayelet, Iris, Phoebe, Evelyn, Vivian…. They are no longer secrets: you can have them. I will not be needing them, apparently.
Most of his names ended up being ones he hadn’t really thought through. I would point out that one rhymed with a slang term for genitalia or one had a nickname that was terrible. “Oh, I didn’t think of that.” Or he’d hear it aloud and say, “Hm, actually, I’m going to take that off the list.”
Two weeks before my due date, we were back to square one and I was back to scouring Appellation Mountain. I went into labour.
In the labour of labour (ha ha), we forgot about the whole naming thing. I hoped that once we saw our daughter, we’d just know which name was the right one. It didn’t quite happen that way. She came into the world. We fell in love. We took her home and stared at her in a googly-eyed, new parent haze. We posted a picture on Facebook. “What’s her name?” friends asked us. We ignored them.
The next day, I rifled through pages of baby names I’d written down over the past eight months. I circled six or seven for my husband to look at. “It’s decision time,” I said, handing it to him. We looked at the list together. Suddenly, both of us focused on a name somewhere in the middle. Not one I’d circled.
Huh. We wondered why we’d never really considered this name before. We said it aloud. It fit. We told my mom, who was staying with us. “I love it,” she said.
That was and is the name.
It’s not an uncommon name, but it’s not, say, Emma. (A lovely name, that’s popular for good reason, but we wanted something slightly less commom.) Of course, as often happens, since we named her, we’ve discovered more kids with her name—in real life and on TV and in movies and books. So we’re probably just as influenced by current trends as those with baby Charlottes (looking at you, Chelsea Clinton).
But the name fit and I love it.
I’m not sure what the moral of the story is. Wait until the last possible moment to name your child? That doesn’t sound right.
Maybe it’s to just take a breath, chill, and not take it so seriously. And let go of that long-held list of “perfect” names.
Once we had the real, live baby out in the world and I’d gone through the monumental physical work of labour, the name seemed like a minor point. Still important, of course, but caring for this tiny human took precedence over everything else and put the name into perspective.
And while I’ve had second thoughts about almost every other decision in my life, I’ve never wavered on the name we chose—because it’s her name. You know how one middle-school bully can ruin a name forever? It works the other way, too: the child you love will solidify your love for the name.
Now, if we ever have a second child? I may have to crowdsource it.
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