There was a day, long ago, when Becky and I were suddenly prompted by certain personal events — the nature of which you can very likely figure out for yourself — to discuss our preferences of names for a hypothetical baby. It was something we hadn’t discussed before in five or six years of cohabitation. This was a luxury possible for most heterosexual couples younger than 40 only since the latter half of the Twentieth Century, and don’t think we didn’t appreciate that fact. We still do.
I told Becky that I liked the idea of having male triplets, and naming them Jeffrey, Douglas, and Joshua, middle names Pine, Fir, and Tree respectively. This earned me a Look.
Once I had assured her that I was only joking, lying through my teeth in the process, Becky did allow as how she thought a botanical name would be a nice choice for a girl. I heartily concurred, and took my copy of Hortus Third
It was Bulbinella. Becky and I looked at each other for a long moment.
Two days later, baby names were no longer an issue. We breathed a sigh of relief which we occasionally re-enact to this day.
For a while afterward I’d imagine a blastocyst listening in on our conversation, recoiling in horror at the notion of going through life with that name, swimming up to the big “Eject” button next to the left fallopian tube, and kicking it hard.
