When we first found out we were baking another extra-large bun in this not-so big oven (helloooo, c-section!), I started calling the entity in my belly “B3.” I liked it. The kiddos’ last name starts with B, so it makes sense. And it sounded cool, like the baby was some sleek, refined stealth bomber or missile or something (not quite so sure why I want to name my child after a weapon, but I’m blaming the hormones). And it became fun to talk about B3.
Saoirse is now telling me that she really wants this new baby to be a boy, and that’d she’d very much like him to be named “Tree.” I have to admit, I don’t actually mind Tree. The child would most definitely be mistaken for one of the Palin kids, though, so Tree is out. Just don’t tell SK quite yet.
And David. Oh, man, I did this to myself. I have seen a total of one episode of Bravo’s Pregnant in Heels. One, because if I’m subjected to any more of Rosie Pope’s accent (I know. She can’t help it. But holy nails on a chalkboard, Batman), and these snooty, over-entitled, lazy women who have absolutely no concept of what it means to be a parent in real time (as in, lady, it’s too hard to wear heels all the time when you’re schlepping a newborn and a diaper bag around, unless your nanny’s doing all the carrying, then nevermind, go grab the stilettos), I’m going to poke out my eyes with one of my own heels. If I could find them, that is, buried behind the ballet flats and sneakers.
This one episode I saw (okay, only half of it. But I’d seen another half of it at some other point, which I think I’ve blocked out for reasons of mental self-preservation) showcased a couple expecting its first daughter, and I think they called in Rosie because the dad couldn’t bond with babies or something, and they had the money to address such matters through serious psychological techniques like bringing in a cute stand-in baby for a day. They ended up having their own baby, of course, and the dad loved her, of course, and they named her…Malibu. They named their kid Malibu.
I realize I’m not one to be getting on anyone for the oddness of their baby’s name–don’t start with me, now, we’ve heard it–but…Malibu? I launched on a tear to David (who, for the record was not watching the show, except for the peeking out of the corner of his eye when I would start heckling the screen) about naming your child after a city (What’s next, I said: Tampa? Anchorage? Bird-in-Hand, like one of the towns in Pennsylvania? The possibilities are endless!), and then it hit us–what if little baby Malibu wasn’t named after a city after all? What if her namesake was…wait for it…actually a brand of RUM?! I don’t know who squealed in glee the loudest, me or David. Rum! We could name our child Myers! Or Bacardi! And then it happened.
“Captain!” David called out. “That’s it! We’re calling the baby Captain!” And ever since then…
“Hey, how’s little Captain doing?”
“Is Captain moving around yet?”
He loves it. I, obviously, don’t. Please keep in mind that David is the one who pushed to give Saoirse her name. I love, love, love her name, and quite honestly can’t imagine her going by anything else. But I’m practical. I realize that it’s always going to be a bit of a hurdle, at first, when she meets new people, or starts a new school year, or goes to interview for a job. I know there’s a good chance she may start going by “Kate” for awhile in middle school. I get it. (And Saoirse, if you’re reading this at 20, I still wouldn’t have named you anything else in the world, and your name is beautiful and meaningful. We’ll talk about it more when you come home from your studies at Brown for a visit). But David just latches on to a name he wants, and dagnabit, it’s AWESOME.
In his mind, I mean.
Except for Captain. Now, I know that our actual child will not have “Captain” anywhere on his or her birth certificate. Or at least, I hope not. But the topic is coming up a lot. As I was discussing with my friend Susannah the other day, we’ve sort of boxed ourselves in with this unique-name-of-Irish-heritage theme we’ve created. She thinks we should stick within the box, which makes sense when we go to name our next child, because as we’ve said before, you can’t name two children Saoirse and Quinlan and call the next one John. Saoirse’s godmother asked us this weekend if this baby will have a “normal” name or not, a worried look on her face. And David and I have started talking about names, for both a girl and a boy, and…and…
…Captain. He’s calling the baby Captain. Let’s just say this child may be named Tree after all, if that’s the path we’re headed down. There’s not enough rum in the world.