'Stop, Steve!' -- and other naming conundrums (National Post, June 2, 2004)

Naming the animals was Adam's first task, so we know that the act of naming is a grave responsibility. My father-in-law understood this. When my husband was born, "Steven" was the anticipated choice. But the family lived in China. His father brooded over the possibility that if someone in the street called out: "Steve, Steve," it might be interpreted by the Chinese servants who spoke pidgin English as "Thief, Thief." Steven became Ronny.

As I write this, I am a 24-hour-old grandmother of a beautiful baby girl. Her name is Alexa. A-lex-a. It's different, but not too different. It's feminine but not "precious." It's not ubiquitous like Olivia, Hannah, Charlotte, Ella and Emma. It is a touch Russian, also appropriate as Alexa is partially of Russian heritage.

Alexa. An Alexa will live up to the limitless promise of her name (but certainly not by joining the NDP). She will not trick herself out in torso-baring hookerwear, sport a nose ring or subject herself to the tattooist's repulsive craft. She could never be arrogant or mean-spirited or unethical or crude. An Alexa would naturally have a sense of humour -- the witty, not the bawdy kind -- and it would reveal itself in a kind of self-deprecating offhandedness, but with an arch twinkle in the eye to indicate the postmodern irony of being self-deprecating in the first place, when one is endowed with such a fabulous personality, not to mention the kind of braininess that aces exams, but also fires off swift bursts of repartee that excite awe rather than envy or resentment amongst one's peers.

Alexa. Do admit you wish you had thought of it first.

They chose not to know the baby's gender beforehand, for "It's a boy!" or "It's a girl!" is one of the few agreeable surprises left in modern life. But my son refused to tell me his name for a putative girl before the birth. "If you don't like it, you will try to talk me out of it," my son said. "No, I won't," I lied. "Yes, you will," he replied impertinently, "but once the baby is born, you won't think about whether you like it or not." Rationality rather than people-pleasing has always been my son's forte, so there was no point in taking umbrage.

My daughter-in-law had been in charge of the putative boy's name and I adored her choice (which I won't reveal in case you steal it for your grandchild, just as Gwyneth Paltrow stole "Apple" from her husband's agent's child. Some thesis-seeking sociologist might profit from further investigation into the fact that there are at least two young mothers in North America -- three if you count Rebecca Eckler -- eager to impose a lifetime of Apple-hood on their offspring. Ominous social trend?)

A name may indicate social attitudes. I knew a '70s couple who called their children Rain and Moonbeam. The marriage, like the hippie movement, withered. Needless to add, Rain and Moonbeam changed their names to Jane and Tom (or their sturdy, boring equivalents) the moment they came of age.

Our own age finds young parents less inclined to dwell in communes and dance barefoot in natural fibre tunics with flowers between their teeth. They are more realistic and materialistically embedded in the bourgeois mainstream. Nevertheless some of them wistfully yearn for the unique and surprising baby name that will endorse their own individuality. Hence the many little girls presently sporting boys' names like Jordan, Jamie, Michael and Rowan (though you never meet boys called Melissa or Brittany) -- or edible names like Apple or Sage. Can Parsley and Thyme be far behind? Rosemary is surely slated for a comeback.

What will Alexa call us? How often in life do you have the opportunity to choose a new name for yourself? I have pondered the question for months. Most youthful Jewish Boomer grandparents reject the old-world associations of the traditional "Bubbie" and "Zaydie." My husband has chosen "Papa." That's sweet. But I obviously can't be "Mama." I don't feel that "Grandma," "Nana" or "any permutations thereof are really moi. If I were pretentious enough, I would choose "Safta," the Hebrew word for grandmother, because I like the way it sounds.

But in the end I decided to go with tradition, bite the bullet and just be Bubbie. Then, last night I met someone who as a child dubbed her Bubbie "Bubbly." The name stuck. Bubbly. I quite like it. So: Bubbie or Bubbly? I think I will let Alexa choose when the time comes. Oh, look, I'm spoiling her already....

© National Post 2004