The Name Game

My kids never knew how good they had it. They were allowed to like their middle names. I never called them by their middle names when they were in trouble. I didn’t name them after 8th century Greek poets. I didn’t saddle them with some quirky family name. I gave them nice, normal middle names.

I always thought that a middle name should be like an insurance policy. Suppose one day you wake up and you think “I want everyone to know that I’m not a kid anymore. I want to go by a different name.” Well, if you have a good middle name, you can start calling yourself by that name.

What if some politician who shares your name is involved in a messy scandal? You don’t have to go on sharing his tarnished name, you have a back up. You have a little insurance policy in your middle name. You can switch to it anytime you like. No legal paperwork required. It’s already there on your birth certificate. All you have to do is start using it. Anybody can do it. Anybody at all. Except me.

I hate my middle name. Veronica Sue. That does not sound very pretty. How about Veronica Elizabeth? That has a nice, regal sound to it. Why didn’t my parents name me that? The name Veronica Ann could flow easily off the tongue. (I didn’t get that one because my greedy, older sister took it before I was born.) But Veronica Sue sounds like a discord on the piano. Two notes that just shouldn’t be played together.

I like the Veronica part. Sue is even fine by itself, but Veronica Sue is just too, well, it’s too southern. It goes too well with Billie Joe or Billy Bob or Bubba. Buddy Holly (another southern name) made Peggy Sue a household name, but you can’t sing Veronica Sue to the same tune. I’ve tried it.

The worst part of growing up with the name Veronica Sue is that it is the name my dad used for me. He thought it was a compliment because I was named for my well loved cousin, Sue. He even made a rhyme out of it. I know. Veronica Sue does not rhyme, but when you say Veronica Sue Jungle-oo, in a twisted sort of way, it does rhyme. That’s what my dad called me.

My dad could not carry a tune. But there were some times when he just burst into song. Sadly for me as a teenage girl, they always coincided with one of my friends calling. My dad would answer the phone. As soon as he heard it was for me, he would lower his hand holding the phone and sing out flatly, but merrily “Verooonica Suuuuue. It’s for you.” (What can I say, my dad liked rhymes.)

The phone being two feet away from his mouth did not in anyway impair the ability of the caller to hear his voice. When I picked up the phone, there was inevitably hysterical laughter on the other end. “Is that really your name? That’s the funniest thing I ever heard,” was the response. My friends learned that the surest way to make me mad was to call me Veronica Sue.

I always liked being a Veronica. You hear the name more often now, but when I was growing up, there were no other Veronicas around. I always had a unique name. I was the only one.

That’s why I was very surprised when years ago I met a waitress with my name. My husband had said my name as I left the table for the ladies’ room. “Is her name Veronica?” the waitress asked. “Yes, it is,” he replied. “That’s my name too,” she said in a surprised voice. She continued,” But I don’t go by it. I much prefer my middle name,” and she pointed to her nametag. “Sue.”

Vaccinations

My office mate took her baby to the doctor today for his six month checkup. He received the standard inoculations for his age. His mommy said that he cried just like the last time he got shots, but this time was better in one way. She didn't cry.

It reminds me of other visits to the doctor for shots. When I went for shots as a kid, they lied to me. "This won't hurt a bit." So I trustingly offered up my tender little arm and the nurse pierced me with a six inch instrument of torture. "Ow! That did too hurt!" I learned never to trust my mom when it came to describing pain. She was a nurse herself and any injury less than a compound fracture required no more treatment than an aspirin. Sympathy was not one of the medicines that she dispensed.

I decided that I would do better than my mom. I would always be honest with my child. The first trip to the doctor for vaccines, I told him "Son, the nurse is going to give you a shot. It is going to hurt, but you will be OK." My wide eyed son took one look at the nurse approaching him with a needle and screamed. "Don't hurt me! I don't want a shot!" And he ran to the corner of the room and curled up into a little ball. I dragged him out and tried to convince him that he would feel the least pain if he would be still and cooperate. He wasn't buying it. I ended up holding him down with his arm twisted behind his back while the nurse gave him the shot. So much for honesty.