Names were always an area of contention during my pregnancies. Except for Jedi’s, which I had my mind set on from the beginning. After our first born, nothing else clicked so completely. It was difficult for us to find a compromise. I’d get excited when I thought I came across the perfect moniker, only to have J turn up his nose. I would painstakingly write long lists for J to scour over, hoping to narrow down the field, and he’d veto every single one.
If it was up to me, Buzz would have been Keaton.
If it was up to J, he would have been Julian.
Since neither of us cared for the other’s preference, we put off the daunting task until the very last minute. As in the few hours between my water breaking and heading to the hospital. We worked through enough to get to Buzz, but then there was the matter of a middle name. A matter which was chosen on impulse and I’ve had a ping of regret ever since.
I’ve come to realize that Buzz’s real name fits him perfectly. Keaton or Julian do not. His middle name doesn’t really, either.
The story of Abby’s name is similar. Although in our defense, we thought we had a name until a series of phone calls occurred and we found that our choice was already taken somewhere along the line in J’s family. So that perfect first name became her middle name and we were back to square one. Which we forced ourselves to tackle the day before I went into labor. In all honesty, it’s a lovely name for a beautiful girl, but I don’t think she acts like her real name. It’s too prim and proper. I believe something along the lines of Little Shit would have been more appropriate.