It has come to my attention that my siblings are worried about my future children’s names. I have, they say, a bad track record, the principal things I have named being Squinchy and Kitty-Koo, the cat I named when I was five. They leave out of this reckoning Margaret, Harriet, Abigail, Lonely Annie Anaconda the Araucana, and the rest of the chickens I have named, Artemis and Aphrodite the terrible cats (by the way, DO NOT NAME CATS AFTER GODDESSES. They get airs. Kitty Koo was a great cat.) as well as Snowdrop the black rabbit I named after a white lamb from a movie. Maybe that one doesn’t help my case — but it did have a white spot on its forehead. Also, they forget I have named a number of imaginary people, and many of them have perfectly fine names like Rosie and Mari, and the ones whose names are things like Bean, well, their names fit them. Like Squinchy fits the Squinch.
However, my brother believes I am going to have a baby and say, “I know there is a totally magnificent name for this child, but I just can’t think of it.” And meanwhile, the poor kid will get called Bubba. He’ll probably be some nerdy oboe-playing blond boy named Bubba. And his siblings, says Aidan, will go by Squoosh and Ploppy. Seriously, Bud. Although, now that I think of it, that’s some nice onomatopoetic stuff. If I want to name them after their diapers that is.
Now, I think things have a way of naming themselves, so I am making no promises, but I do believe I can do better than Ploppy.