“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet.”
Doesn’t everybody go through a stage in their lives where they think that having a different name would somehow make everything better?
Thankfully that passes. Because a sixty year old named “Summer Moonbeam” is somehow just not right.
My mother named me Linda Mae. Born in May, maternal grandmother always known as Mae; aunt who raised my father and his brothers after his mother died – you guessed it – May. Three strikes and you’re out.
Linda was only the most popular name on the face of the earth in the decade in which I was born. I went from grade one through grade seven with another Linda May, and countless other Lynns and Lindas all through school. My husband is the one who started calling me Lin, so I suppose that’s why I like it. It’s simple and easy to remember, and doesn’t necessarily make you think immediately of Daisy Mae and Elly Mae and Sadie Hawkins day and ceee-ment ponds.
Okay, I’m really dating myself, never mind that my name does that for me without any extra help. I tried to give my daughter a name that she wouldn’t hate. And even if she did I prayed she’d realize her mother gave it to her with the best intentions and no shortage of love.
My mother named me, and I loved my mother. So the name stays.