Like most, we took great care and deliberation when deciding on the names for our children. There were several choices that brought us joy just by mere utterance of the proposed monikers. Here are a few we tossed out to those who inquired:
Scooby Doo. (Yiiikkkes)
LaLa (This revealed the disdain some adults have for the teletubbies. I feel sorry for the mothers of the teletubbies as the awkwardness they must have to confront on a daily basis must be tiring.):
"And what does your son do for a living?"
"He's a teletubby."
Dill Pickle (This always produced a SOUR expression.)
(For the record, I know the jokes are terrible. Please locate the mean, little red box in the upper right-hand corner to safely exit when you have had enough.)
While we weren't entirely serious when mentioning these considerations to others, we readily admit the enjoyment we received from their reactions. It become somewhat of a sick game to summon the most outrageous name of the day to share with family and friends, all in the name of a good-hearted chuckle.
(And when you are pregnant, there are few things that are funny when the stuff between your shoulders and your waist line actually touch and hair pops out of places that are just wrong. In my hormonal mind, laughs, while contrived, were deserved and much needed.)
In the end, family names were chosen for all of our children, and for the most part, our offspring are happy with the choices made.Except, it would seem, for Mary Mac.
Her first and second names are a combination of each grandmother's name. Mary is my husband's mother and Mac is from mine. (As a point of clarification, my mom is not a truck driver with hairy arms and nicotine stained fingers as the name might suggest. It is Mackaela, which has been shortened to the very feminine Mac.)
The initial identity crisis began when Mary Mac first began talking. She has two older brothers and often found herself in a situation necessitating a firm claim over playroom territory and/or toys. "Mary Mac's!" she would bellow at her brothers so often and for so long that she thought that to be her identity. For months, when anyone asked the child her name, she would respond in the possessive form, "Mary Mac's."
That stage transitioned to a new level altogether when Mary Mac demanded that we refer to her by a new name she came up with all by her defiant self:
Reluctantly, our family mostly complied, particularly if it prevented a monkey fit in public. With child number three, we were past caring about the strange looks received by others as we called out to our green-eyed Marshmallow. Even if it did leave those observing with the impression that we were members of some hippy cult who, after gazing all googley-eyed up at the groovy, blue sky, chose to name our baby after the shape of a fluffy cloud.
It's now been over a year since we last referred to our youngest as Marshmallow, and she seems to have finally embraced her originally given name. Our newest concern is the realization that in the future we will have to ward off any love interests bearing last names of "Nugget" or "Flurry", or even worse, "Rib", to prevent possible matrimony resulting in a name combination that only Ronald McDonald would enjoy.
So the identity crisis continues.
Clearly, Scooby Doo was the safer choice.