What's in a Name?
One of the most valuable things parents can do is bestow their children with good taste in names. No one ever talks about this. It's not an official part of any parenting manual. But it's important. Oh, it's important.
I read in the news recently that a teenage girl protesting a biology assignment changed her name from Jennifer to Cutout Dissection.com. Seriously. Her driver's license now reads Dissection.com, Cutout.
I'm all for political protest, but why didn't she go with Ann T. D'Section? Same message, but miles closer to normal.
High school can be miserable but it's not a permanent affliction. A name, on the other hand, lasts until death or an inconvenient trip to the courthouse. Why not just wear a message T-shirt and the character-building regrettable haircut, and be done with it? Why change your name and be stuck saying, "Well, in high school…" for the rest of your life?
Her parents should have taught her better.
Most people's first naming attempts don't begin with themselves, though I'm going to make an exception here for the spawn of certain celebrities. Pilot Inspektor and Moxie Crimefighter, I'm talking to you. You have my permission for a do-over as soon as you're of legal age.
My point, and I do have one somewhere, is that it's important to give kids a chance to name a thing or two before they make a horrible mistake with their own offspring.
When Lucy was 3, my beloved dog died. I thought it'd be a great idea to let Lucy name the new puppy herself. She was learning her alphabet and really liked to string together novel combinations of letters.
"What about M-O-I-D?" she said.
"That spells Moid," I replied. "It's quite possibly the worst name in the history of the world."
"Moid!" Lucy said, delighted. "Moid, Moid, Moid, Moid."
Moid is not a name that grows on you with repetition, except in the manner that mildew might creep up the hem of your shower curtain.
But she clung to the name Moid, and we were only saved by the fact that my aunt and uncle gave her a goldfish before we met the right puppy. The goldfish became Moid, and for his short life, seemed to tolerate it, though I'm leaning toward the conclusion now that his quick death was his only means of protest.
When we did get the puppy, I named her Rosemary. Lucy was angry that Couch Jumper and "Petally" didn't meet my high standards. Still, after what happened later to Tom Cruise when he jumped on Oprah's couch, I'm glad I held firm.
Now we are in the process of assembling our family band. Alice is teaching herself to play the piano. Lucy and I play the violin. With Adam on the guitar, we're a regular honkytonkish/bluegrassish group that knows one whole song, "Bile Them Cabbages."
Alice, ever the logical child, has suggested we name our group "Family Band" or "The Bile Them Cabbages Band." She also suggested "The Bathing Suit Rockers" because she is lately obsessed with the idea of learning to swim. I rejected this. I do not like rocking a bathing suit. I will not rock one on stage—not without liposuction, a spray tan, and entrance into the federal witness protection program.
Lucy, however, is staying true to her roots. Her suggestion, repeated several times at top volume, is "The Rocking Moids," which sounds like something you might get when you're old, sedentary, and in need of more fiber in your diet.
I am considering it, though, if only to save a future grandchild from having to answer when someone calls out, "Moid!" I don't know, though. Maybe we should get a hamster instead.
(Martha Brockenbrough is taking time off. While she's gone, we're republishing some of her most popular posts.)
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