Member-only story
My Daughter’s Name Sucks
It was supposed to be unique
I wasn’t one of those women that chose a name for my child when I was eight weeks pregnant. I didn’t walk around calling my stomach Sarah or Ava. I neglected to print the chosen name on blankets, banners, my eyelids, or the toaster.
Because I’m not a dick.
I didn’t start thinking of names until I was six months pregnant. My husband and I each wrote a list of our favorite names and shared them with one another.
Then we made the tough but crucial decision that I would be naming our daughter, and he did not need to submit further suggestions.
And neither did his mother.
We were naming a baby, not a stripper.
By the time I was eight months pregnant, I had presented three names to my husband, who said that he was happy with any of those options.
Which meant he was too busy getting bombed to give a fuck.
We, well I, decided to wait until our baby was born and choose one of the three names at the hospital after we had met our sweet baby girl and I was high on painkillers.
People at work were disgusted I hadn’t firmly decided on a name before giving birth, because they couldn’t monogram everything I owned.
