A Rose by Any Other Name

By Marty Boyle

Marty Boyle

[Note #1: This story takes place in the Jurassic Era before ultra sounds were used to identify the gender of the baby. Yeah, I know. Go ahead and roll your eyes, but my ace-in-the-hole is that one day, you, too, will be wrinkled and wise.]
        There appears to be a rash of pregnancies swirling around us these days, none of which belong to me. [Note #2: Thank goodness.] As a result, there has been a rash of discussions about baby names. This, naturally, has dredged up all sorts of memories about the process my husband and I followed to name our four children. Because I now claim to be an expert in this particular field, I seek to enlighten those still in the throes of battle. Er, …, I mean, discussion. Yep. That’s exactly what I mean.
        When our oldest child, Katie, was born, we had little trouble agreeing upon Kathleen Rianne Boyle, a good Irish name for a wee, red-headed lass. Even when our second daughter arrived on schedule two years later, Meghan Elizabeth Boyle was agreed upon with little squabble. We smirked as our friends engaged in civil wars over proper monikers for their proper offspring. Looking back, however, perhaps we smirked a little too loudly, for it wasn’t until I was officially designated as with child-ren, that I truly understood the fuss.
        Obviously, if our duo had turned out to be twin boys, we would have had no trouble agreeing upon names. After all, we had already experienced two pregnancies’ worth of male name choices. We quickly decided upon Michael Patrick and Matthew James. Period. Paragraph. End of discussion. Let the smirking begin.
        [Note #3: One does need to establish some groundwork before walking down the wedding aisle. Vital issues need to resolved ahead of time, such as who will be responsible for: a) picking up the dirty towels dropped onto the bathroom floor; b) possession of the television remote; and, c) cleaning out the refrigerator. I submit that another moral question be added to the above: Have you any weird – or filthy rich – relatives with bizarre names who will automatically expect to be chosen as a namesake for any or all children born of this union? Go ahead and scoff, but that’s exactly what happened to me. Keith and his best childhood buddy had apparently made such a pact. You can well imagine my profound relief when I discovered that his friend’s name was Michael and not Blobbo.]
        Deep in our heart of hearts, we knew our ten-year, rock-solid marriage would go straight down the tubes if two more daughters would require names. We had reached impasse after impasse, and began to wonder if an impartial panel of Federal Arbitrators would have to be called in for remediation.
        We finally settled on an old technique: I Might Consider That Name if You’ll Consider This One Procedure. [Note #4: My secret title for this technique was Why Didn’t I Realize You Were So Pigheaded When I Agreed to Marry You?] Our family handbook, According to Boyle, dictated that after presenting our own slate of possible names, we each attacked – in a loving and nurturing fashion, of course – the other’s list mercilessly.
        Keith threw out my Erin, and I axed his Clotilde. He tossed out Colleen, so I yanked out Drisella. He quickly penciled out Maureen, Elise, and Caroline. It was only right and just, then, that I eliminated Alvina, Brunhilda, and Clarabelle. I began to wonder exactly what sort of monster to whom I had pledged my troth that would even consider Eudora Eulalie Boyle. When he denounced Brenna, Bethany and Bridget, I knew our marriage was not only on the rocks, but sinking fast. In fact, his list was so hideous that sandwiched in between the aforementioned names, I discovered Tweedle Dumma and Tweedle Dea. Jury, I rest my case.
        This was the point to where the top-level negotiations had progressed the night before our twins were born – nine days past their due date. Perhaps God knew what She was doing when She made us wait for those babies. It is entirely in the realm of possibility that She was tapping her toes, awaiting names. My reasoning is that after nine extra days, She figured that the babies would never emerge if we had to agree on two more girls’ names. But, the next day, emerge they did. We were thrilled to finally hold the first twin – a daughter – in our arms. Five minutes later, our son was born.
        As I saw it at this point, it was now time to get down and dirty, so to speak. I pulled out every tactic I could, even trying to exploit my labor pain as much as possible to gain the advantage. No luck. Heartless Keith had been hanging around me too long, and knew all my sneaky tri ..., er, tactical maneuvers. As the discussion continued in the hospital room, I began to feel as if I was losing my touch. I tersely informed him that I could not possibly remain the mother of this child with his chosen names. The debate continued to quietly rage. Nurses thought we were cooing over our new babies. Appearances can be deceiving.
        But, enough of this. Suffice it to say that my husband and I are intelligent, rational beings. We dearly love each other and our children. As the sun slowly made its way into the crisp heavens that March morning, we rose above our pettiness and quietly agreed upon a name for our precious baby girl.
        I was recalling all of this just the other day, when I was on the phone with one of my children. She was telling me about a friend of hers who was having such a discussion with her husband. Love filled me, and I thought of our own wonderful children, who, as teenagers had always gazed up at me in their customary, adoring fashion: Kathleen, Meghan, Michael, and good old #3.

(Excerpt from This, Two, Shall Pass: The Ultimate Survival Handbook for Mothers of Twins, Triplets and Quads – mjboyle607@aol.com)

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