What’s in a Name?

“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”

What’s in a name, Juliet? Well, consider this: If your name was Apple, and Romeo’s name was Blanket, then that famous play you’re in would be called Blanket and Apple. That’s not nearly as romantic as Romeo and Juliet, and somehow I can’t imagine your play would ever be as famous with two star-crossed lovers named after a fruit and a large piece of material used for comfort and warmth. So what’s in a name, Juliet? A frigging heck of a lot, that’s what.

Naming a baby is not something to take lightly; it’s serious business. It might seem cute to name a kid ‘Blanket’ or ‘Apple’ when he’s little, but what if that baby wants to grow up to be…I don’t know…normal? What if he wants to go on a date someday? No girl is going to want to introduce her boyfriend, ‘Blanket’ to her dad.

You just can’t mess around with naming a kid. It’s wrong and it’s mean.

It is, however, very enjoyable to mess with the general public and tell them you’re going to name your kid something horrible just to get a reaction.

I was at the gas station the other day when an acquaintance of my mom’s flagged me down. Let’s call her, ‘Carol’. I’ve always liked Carol. She’s a ‘shoot from the hip’ type. When Carol waved frantically and yelled, “Dear! DEAR!?” I politely waved back and assumed the interaction was over. But Carol was not through with me. She began to make her way across the station from her pump to mine. “Oh no,” I muttered to myself. I immediately began to panic and scramble for my wallet thinking I owed her money or something (I always worry I owe someone money when they come towards me with such drive).

“Dear, I just wanted to say I read your blog.”

“Thank you!” I said.

“Well, I didn’t say I liked it. I said I READ it.”

“Thank you!” I said again.

“Sooooo…..rumor has it you’re having another one!” she blurted.

“Lies,” I said. “All lies.”

Carol looked shamelessly from my basketball stomach to my face and back again.

“You lookin’ at me gut?” I said in my best Phil Collins voice. She didn’t get it, so I sheepishly moved on.

“Yeah…I’m having another one…”

Carol lit up and launched into a blitz of questions. How am I feeling? Do I feel the same as the first time? Do I know the sex? Will I nurse or bottle feed? Am I taking another maternity leave or going back to work? Do I have a birth plan? What the hell is a birth plan? Will I get an epidural? What about a section? Who’s going in the room with me? And finally…

“So what names do you have picked out?”

Not, “Do you have any names picked out?” For which I could respond, ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ But WHAT names. As in, give me a list and make it snappy. So, I decided to toy with her emotions.

“We really like the name, Denims.” I said.

She grimaced and asked, “Denims? Like jeans?”

Unable to hide her disdain she said, “Oh, dear…you really need to name him something nice.”

As though a cartoon light bulb went off over my head, I said, “You mean, Khakis?! Khakis are nicer than denims. Good suggestion! Now we’ll have two names to choose from.”

“No, I didn’t suggest khakis! I meant something like…William,” she suggested.

“William? I don’t know…that sounds like a big, fancy writer’s name.”

“It’s nice,” she insisted.

I put on my best poetic face and asked, “But Carol? What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”

“What in the hell is that goobly-gook coming out of your mouth?” she said.

“I dunno, just something I made up just now,” I lied.

“What in the hell does your mother think of a name like, Denims?” she asked.

“Well, I’d say she likes it. She’s the one who thought of it.”

“Oh Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” she mumbled.

“Yeah those are okay names too,” I joked. “What about, Carol? Carol’s a nice name.”

“That’s my Goddamn name!” she said.

“I like it,” I said. “It’s nice.”

At that, Carol went silent and watched me out of the corner of her eye for an uncomfortably long time. Finally, she said, “Are you shittin’ me?”

“Yes, Carol. Yes, I’m shitting you,” I confessed.

“You little shit!” she said.

We said our goodbyes before she called me a ‘little shit’ one more time and then we parted ways. As Carol was pulling out I yelled, “Hey, Carol! I hope you know I’m going to blog about you!”

“Don’t you goddamn dare!” she roared. But I pretended not to hear her.

So ‘Carol’ if you read this, here’s the blog post I goddamn dared to write about you. And don’t worry. I promise to name my baby something ‘nice’ like William…or Denims…or Khakis…

My name is Lisa Carmody Doiron. I’m a mother, teacher, writer, performer living in PEI, Canada and tossing the occasional content over to Blunt Moms