In every pregnancy there is the impending task of giving birth that lies ahead-and the countdown that ensues from the moment you learn of a new life. Previously the thought of getting my children out of me was in fact the subject of nine months’ worry- the what if, what if, what if sitting on my shoulder and growing exponentially each day with my belly. Now, as seasoned parents almost four times over, when we encounter couples that bring out the labor horror stories, Ryan and I can usually hold our own. Really, it doesn’t get more messy than pre-term labor and multiples, bed rest and prematurity, vbacs and all 8 lbs. 7 oz. of Liv. In the back of my mind I know of course there is worse, however my present little bird of worry is not singing of birth, but rather the event following a close second. What happens when they hand me the baby and ask what his name is?

I think my hesitation with this process began precisely at my own birth, where my own parents declared that I should be known as the name held dear to their hearts for decades, so I’m told. But surprisingly not the name they had intended, really, because as precisely as they had decided “Leslie,” as equally precisely was the name interpreted– “Lezlie.” All 29 years and counting.

I wonder how there was any ambiguity in the name at first; I used to correct my teachers and new acquaintances all the way up until 2nd grade and then found the effort futile. As an adult, I realized the name, by means of social context, truly was meant to be pronounced with a ‘z’ and that people are just saying it the way they had always heard, no offense. Interesting, it seems the name itself, was bestowed with a built-in flaw.

These days, the z follows me around 99% of the time, yes that is ninety-nine people out of a hundred, the one my mother must have corrected somewhere along the way, but the good news is I no longer hear it. The z doesn’t even register on my radar, though Ryan picks it up sometimes…’Why does this person think your name is Lezlie?’ he will comment to me after such an encounter. ‘Because it is,’ I usually answer. Remarkably though, we still run across that one, who upon hearing my name, does in fact parrot it back to me correctly, pronouncing the ‘s,’ and I scratch my head and wonder. Perhaps the whole thing is not so much about the name as who has the ability to hear, or rather, listen.

And so begins the process of giving this little person the name by which we truly intend him to be called. Ryan and I may have a million different ideas running through our heads and that’s okay, but at least one thing we can agree on, no funny spellings or interpretations. His name, whatever it is, is going to be as clear as day. You hear that son, you will not be misinterpreted from birth. Furthermore, as with every child, there is extra parental research regarding nicknames, what do his initials spell, what is the worst thing the kids on the playground could come up with, do we want to pass on any family names, is this name a good match with siblings’, not to mention will anyone in the family hold a grudge for stealing the one name saved for future posterity. And lastly, if that’s not enough pressure, be sure to check local listings to see if both your newborn twins’ names are present on ‘The Suite Life of Zach and Cody’ (of which we’d do again in a heartbeat and besides, our twins are infamous for it ). Follow all these steps correctly and we may in fact have a winner…but in the meantime sleepless nights must ensue.

And with that I have created for ourselves even more pressure than even the incredible task of raising you.

P.S. Just in case anyone is wondering, today I told Ryan I am changing my name to (wait for it)–
LEZZZLIE
all capitalized with three Z’s, just so there is no ambiguity.