As I may have mentioned before, my mother is a worrier. Whether she’s panicking that I’ve got some kind of tropical sleeping sickness simply because I momentarily yawned on the phone to her, or reading a story about a car crash in – say – Idaho and phoning to check that I’m OK, she truly deserves her monicker She Who Was Born To Worry.
Of course, when you tell her that her daughter-in-law is going to have her grandchild, her worrying swoops into overdrive. Every pause, phrase or look is microscopically examined for medical problems, and news of morning sickness is greeted with bitten nails and nervous enquiries. I tried to tell her that it was probably just the dodgy kebab that I’d eaten the night before, but she’s not listening by that point.
But if She Who Was Born To Worry was being truly honest, there’s one thing that she’s more worried about than anything when it comes to the impending arrival. One thing that keeps her awake at night, and sends her off into paralysing emotional agony whenever she thinks about it. And that’s her fear that she could have a grandchild that has got an American name.
Don’t get me wrong, She Who Was Born To Worry has nothing against Americans, although you wouldn’t necessarily know it when she’s barging them and their oversized cameras out of the way on the streets of Chester. But whatever she thinks of Americans themselves, I think it’s fair to say that when it comes to the name game, she’s of the opinion that the United States should be represented on the outside of her latest grandchild’s passport but not the inside.
Of course most names these days are universal; there’s now probably more Dylan’s in America than there are people in Wales, after all. Whether it’s Joshua or Thomas, Grace or Olivia, people on both sides of the Atlantic tend to work from the same book when attempting to pick a name for their child that will provide bullies with one less reason to pick on their precious one.
That said, classic American shortenings such as Chuck, Herb and Hank are probably out. As indeed is any name which would seem to make the child more suitable for a career in the US Army than for life as a professional morris dancer. Similarly, while I have an oft-professed admiration for country music, and The Special One hails originally from Tennessee, I think it’s safe to say that we’ll be ruling out names such as Millie-Jo, Billy-Ray and Tammy-Lou.
She Who Was Born To Worry’s greatest fear though is that we’ll be seized by the American desire to make up strange names, such as Shawnika, Raynard or Johnetta. I think she could almost live with Messiah, Huckleberry or Melky, as long as we don’t go for Paige Darcie.
Still, nobody need get hot under the collar just yet. With the hastily-established naming committee having decreed that both The Special One and I have the chance to use a full and final veto on any name that the other one comes up with, we’re yet to find any name that we mutually agree on. And while we’ve got some options for girls, the cupboard is pretty much bare for boys. Feel free to send your thoughts our way – just don’t bother with Cody or Madison though, OK?