This bonus post—which has nothing to do with your face or anyone’s—comes to you thanks to my accidental muse, L, who is soon to become a Granny (not a Grammie). She was just told her future grandson’s name, which reminded me of a short essay about naming my son I wrote years ago for a great magazine called 7 Days.
Also, Succession fans, spoiler alert! Before last night’s finale, the brilliant folks at the babyname site Nameberry (founded by an old friend) called it correctly, based on the characters’ names. Check out their theory here.
As for the essay…
If there is a trend—I’m not saying there is, only if there is—toward people giving their children simple, common, easy-to-remember names these days, then people are coming to their senses. I feel hopeful about this: recently, I met a couple of 6-month-old Sams and two Alices under 3 years old, and I heard about a man naming his son Jack because he liked the idea of his being greeted with, “Damn glad to meet you, Jack.” Tough, no-nonsense names. Names you’ve heard before. Names you don’t forget. Those kinds of names are the best names for kids.
I myself did not follow this advice. I wanted to name my son after my father, whose name was Arthur. I would never name a person Arthur, so I named my son Reid (which means red-haired), feeling that I had still gotten away with naming him after my father, since, though my father’s name was Arthur, everyone called him Red (for his hair).
I thought Reid was a good, respectable name when I first heard it, just before my son was born, and I think it’s a good name now. The problem I had with it was that I had never met anyone called Reid, and even though I got used to using it pretty quickly, apparently the name did not stick irrevocably in my mind, because one day not long ago when my son was about 3, I forgot it. Big deal, you say, so why didn’t you look at his birth certificate, or call your husband, or without losing too much pride, make a little game of it and ask your son what his name is?
I couldn’t, because we were in the playground, and Reid was about to attempt some daredevil, high-wire acrobatic feat that was going to end with his killing himself or breaking his arms and legs at the very least, and not only was I nowhere near his birth certificate, but neither was I near enough to catch him or break his fall. All I could do was scream his name, which, as I said, I forgot. I called him Roger. I did, really. I have no explanation, except that I once met someone named Roger. My son, of course, didn’t flinch. He took another step closer to death.
Now this silly anecdote turns into a horror story for me. I can feel again the utter helplessness, the overwhelming, nightmarish despair at having lost my only connection to my son. For the few moments that I couldn’t remember Reid’s name, I had absolutely no way to reach him. He was lost to me and I was powerless to retrieve him.
Fortunately a friend of mine, who has a cousin named Reed, was at the playground, too, with her son. Only when she cried, “Reed! Reed!” did Reid step back onto the safety of the jungle-gym platform. Saved by his name. I wish I had been the one to call it.
Here is a good rule of thumb for naming your baby: If there have been many people in your life called Flavian, and you like the name, then go ahead and call your boy Flavian. But if you’re not used to using it, best to call him Fella or Sonny or Jack.
Your regular HNTFUYF post will arrive, as usual, first thing tomorrow morning. See you soon. xo
haha loved that !! (Skipped the succession part. Thanks for the spoiler warning!! !) Whenever I was yelling for them I always, mistakenly, called my children by our dog's name.
I sympathize. I called my first son by my brother's name, my second son by his brother's name, our first dog (male) by second son's name, our second second dog (female) by the nanny's name (the other female in the house besides me). That, in accounting, is called LIFO (last in, first out). I was so used to males that I referred to my first granddaughter as 'he' for several days -- clearly my brain had to adjust to the (thrilling) idea that a descendant of mine could be female.