The Name Game

Friday, January 16, 2004

Page 14

AT THE SIDEBAR (Column)

The Name Game

By J’AMY PACHECO

Years ago, when our child was still just the proverbial twinkle in the eye, we knew what her name would be.

When my husband and I began to consider starting a family, we agreed that we hoped for a girl, and we ultimately decided to name her J’Amy Elizabeth.

For the record, I wanted to name her Ariel. That was her Cuban father’s name—pronounced ah-ree-EL—before he became a citizen and changed it to something more American. My husband’s argument against the name was that nobody could spell it; my response was that with the popularity of Disney’s “The Little Mermaid,” everyone could spell and pronounce “Ariel.”

He made a better argument, though, and when we finally did have our girl, her birth certificate said “J’Amy Elizabeth.”

A funny thing happens when people learn your child shares your name. Most often, the response comes in a bordering-on-shock tone and is phrased like this: “You named your child after yourself?”

Technically, the answer is no. My child is named after some stranger in the newspaper, for that is where my mother originally found the spelling of my name. Regardless of where it originated, I’m constantly baffled by the reaction we sometimes get.

My brother and his wife named their son after my brother. In the 20 years my nephew has walked the planet, I’ve never heard anybody express anything bordering on outrage that he was named after his father.

Must be a girl thing.

Most of the time, it’s fun sharing a name with my almost-eight-year-old daughter. We always get a chuckle at Disneyland, where the gatekeepers usually welcome us by the names inscribed on our annual passes and who usually do a double-take when the same name passes through twice.

Sometimes, it’s confusing. We see the same dentist, and when the semi-annual “It’s cleaning time again!” postcard arrives for “J’Amy,” I’m never sure which of us is expected. I’m not sure they are, either.

Since my daughter isn’t yet allowed to make more than occasional use of the telephone, we haven’t encountered problems with people calling for “J’Amy” and getting confused when we ask which one. At present it’s obvious—if a grown-up calls, it’s for me; if a tiny voice asks for J’Amy, it’s a pretty sure bet it’s for the tiny voiced-J’Amy. (That isn’t me.)

Eventually, though, I’m sure we’ll have to come up with a way of asking—something like, “The mother, or the daughter?” But since my little one has thus far voiced her intention of living with Mom and Dad forever, that could ultimately become confusing as well.

Our middle names are different—hers is, as I mentioned, Elizabeth. Mine is Carol. Unfortunately, very few people actually know what my middle name is. (But hey, now you do!) So the “J’Amy Elizabeth, or J’Amy Carol?” thing isn’t going to work.

Some of our friends resolved the situation in their own way. My daughter is “Little J’Amy,” and I’m—you guessed it—“Big J’Amy.” Most of the people who use these monikers are under the age of eight, so I suppose to them, I’d be “Big J’Amy” no matter what.

(But when our two-year-old pal Chloe says “Big J’Amy! Big J’Amy!” I can’t help being reminded of that old song, “Hey Big John, ya better get your britches on, company’s a-coming, Big John.)

At home, it’s easy. Nobody calls me J’Amy. To my husband, I’m “Hon,” and to Little J’Amy, I’m just “Mommy.”

Little J’Amy is “Baby.” In her infancy, we called her “Baby J.” When she entered kindergarten, some of my friends chastised me for calling my big girl “Baby J,” and I debated about stopping.

Ironically, it is the big girl herself who keeps the nickname going. If I call her “Sweetie,” she corrects me. “Call me ‘Baby,’” she insists.

J’Amy is not an easy name for a little girl to be saddled with. The apostrophe throws almost everybody off, and you’d probably be surprised at how many people don’t even know what an apostrophe is. The “big ‘A’” that follows the apostrophe nearly always gets dropped, and we mostly go through life being called “Juh-Amy” instead of “Jay-mee.”

I can live with that. It’s like they say—I don’t care what they call me, as long as they don’t call me late for dinner.

Unless it’s “Old J’Amy...”