Name Game

I think for all parents naming your children is something you do not enter into lightly. Every Evan, Moon Beam Zappa and Taylor came after some consideration, Whether it be family tradition handed down 14 generations such as my neighbor,or  a couple's story, as in the case with Sunday Kidman Urban, or a lucky draw from the baby name book. Each has a story. Here is ours:
My first born was supposed to be Sarah. In my heart of hearts that baby was a girl. Everyone but his future Godmother whose is also my Goddaughter Alexandra, thought he was a she. So when his head popped out and the Dr took one look at his long eyelashes and declared him a boy even before the bits were revealed, he took after her and there he goes. His middle name honors my Grandfather.

When Sarah was a no show the first time, she was moved to second string for the second child, being trumped by Rebecca. Since there was a good chance this too would be a boy child I wanted to be ready. I remember so clearly the day I sat on the family room floor with the baby book open scouring for boy names I liked. I was struggling. Patrick? Douglas? Then it hit me. My favorite guy of all time, ever...St Nicholas. What a wonderful legacy to be handing down to a child. Named after the best guy, the best spirit of children. Done. He too took on a grandfather's middle name, that just so happened to also be his dad's name.

By the time the third child rolled around, having gone into the birthing room blind twice, we decided to get that ultra sound that removed any doubt. We still had Sarah, Rebbecca and now Ally floating around waiting for a little princess to name. Alas, an appendage was spotted and we would have no wedding to pay for in the future. Knowing this would be the last child there was a brief moment of      oh     but quickly all the fun and ease of same sex family came to mind. And I felt blessed.

Around this time a neighbor stopped by. I think it was something about borrowing tools. Anyway, as I stood in the front door with a very large belly, a baby on a hip and one running around my legs, he asked about their names.When I told him he said, " Oh you are going with the Russian Czars! How great!" I tried very hard to  keep my ignorance from showing and just smiled and nodded, "Yeah that's right." The relief of this chance encounter was I now had a focus for my third boy. As I researched I found Catherine The Great, Alexander The Great, his son Nicholas the Bold, and a whole bunch of generations where they kept passing their names back and forth. I also found a Simon, we already had a Bichon by that name so we were set there. I was left with Peter and Mikhail. That seemed easy. I could not go from such strong names as Alexander & Nicholas to simply Peter, so Michael it was. And again, a grandfather's name follows his first.

It felt right, complete. Then I met people, many people who had stories, well warnings actually, about "Michael". And they swarmed me. And acted like this was a well known fact, like the law of gravity. What goes up comes down, name a kid Michael and you will have a run for your money. One women, while I was still pregnant and at her husband's 50th birthday party took me aside and said "Don't do it, I married one and I named one, don't do it". Well I did not want to look like a dope to my neighbor; I had made a commitment to my fake intelligence after all, so we did it.
And he was a bit    different.  He was the only child I had to harness, in his high chair,& in his stroller, serious 5 point restraint. I had to actually buy him a different car seat, because unlike his two big brothers who never attempted to get out of theirs, he fashioned himself a regular Houdini.  At 2,  when Michael said he wanted to wear his red shirt, he would put on every red shirt he had in his closet. He was my only child who climbed out of his crib. I will forever remember the night I heard a strange grunting coming from the hall only to find my baby straddling the gate at his bedroom door. Yes, I had to but a gate at his bedroom door. 
While waiting in the line for the ferry to Block Island one year he took off away from me at full speed, I went running after him in between cars, any of which could move or open a door in an instant. A man stepped out 50 yards in front of me and swooped my son up in his arms. As he handed him back to me he smiled and shook his head " Michael?" He asked. I breathlessly nodded and he said " I am a high school principal, more trouble with Micheals than any other name. "  UGH.  A year or so later we were at the Irish Festival in Danbury. The boys were with their cousins all pre-school and toddler aged. The adults, FOUR of us, were standing outside the blow-up obstacle course the kids were running through. We kept looking, kept counting. 1 2 3 4 5 6... 1 2 3 4 5 6... Then when it was time to end their turn we only had five. Leaving the older boys with their Aunt & Uncle his dad & I fanned out across the Westconn campus. The panic in my heart is impossible to describe. I ran one way, he ran another.There were families everywhere, cooking tents, cars, the stage. and at this time no cells phones. About 25 minutes later we found him, he had toddled down to the amphitheater and climbed up on some man's lap to watch. ( The very kind gentleman said he was suspicious since the child had only socks on, that his parents might not know where he was)  As I took him from the police, and held him in my arms, he simply said "I wanted to hear the music" His breakfast food of choice has been chicken noodle soup since he was 5, ( he rarely gets sick). He's My Michael. He may very well be the death of me.
In a house full of Russian Czars, perhaps I should not be so surprised by the amount of territorial fighting. Maybe somehow I set that up. I should look up who wins, I hope it's Catherine the Great.