The Perfect Name

            Willow is a pretty name. I like that name. So is Amelia. But Amelia reminds me of the look you get after drinking sour milk. And Willow reminds me of Willow Smith. Once when I was younger I saw a picture of Will Smith with Willow, and I was convinced that she was a puppet. I don’t know why. I guess my eight-year old reasoning concluded that Will Smith did a movie about a friendly, crime-fighting puppet named Willow, like how the Muppets do movies with real people actors. I was actually excited to see it in theaters. But when I learned that she was an actual living, breathing human, it felt as though I was watching a mannequin come to life. So never mind about Willow. Or Amelia.

            Names are important. Names are necessary. I think about names a lot, especially the names of my imaginary future children. For a long time I was going to name my daughter Charlotte and call her Charlie and she was going to wear purple felt dresses and have long black hair that she puts back in a sparkly headband. But then I met a real Charlotte, and Charlotte was a total bi-otch. I imagined my own little Charlotte in her felt purple dress with her long black hair that she puts back in a sparkly headband pushing some poor kid into a sandbox. So I said adieu to Charlotte and moved onto Harper. I was going to name my daughter Harper Lee, after the author of To Kill A Mockingbird, which is the kind of book that someone will say is their favorite when they want to impress the boy they like because they don’t want to reveal that their actual favorite book is about a teenage spy. I bragged to my friends about my brilliant idea, and they were quick to remind me that Harper was the name of the pudgy friend on Wizards of Waverly Place who made her own strawberry-shaped jewelry. Still, to this day, Harper remains an option. I was thinking about getting a spaniel and naming him Boo Radley, but I feel like that might be a step too far.

            But now, as I slowly draw near the prime of my maturity, it’s no longer just a matter of choosing the right name for my children, but an inner argument over whether or not I want to have a child at all, or if I even have the ability to. I know it’s morbid, but I’m convinced that I’m infertile. My friend’s mom warned me that I would “fry my eggs” if I put my laptop on my lap, ironically its intended place of use. I tried to make an effort for a month or so, using a pillow as a barrier between my potential children and the radiation beams steaming from my computer, but pretty soon I was back to where I started, spooning my laptop while watching old SNL clips on Hulu. Why was it so easy for me to possibly surrender my chance of raising a child? Was it coming from a subconscious decision that I actually didn’t want to bring a child into this world of terror and hate, a decision that I am still struggling with? Or was it just my 13 year-old stupidity and lack of self-care? (In eighth grade I would eat two bags of pretzels and a scone every day. For snack.)

            But, now I think, just because I don’t want to bring a child into this world, doesn’t mean I don’t want to raise one. Sure, my patience often runs thin, and sometimes I fall asleep without brushing my teeth, but I do think that I could be a really wonderful mom. On Thanksgiving, I revealed my budding interest in adoption to my family. This is how it went down:

            “I think I might want to adopt,” I proudly proclaimed.

            “Why?”

            “I don’t know-it just seems like the right thing to do. Once I was in Santa Barbara and I met this family with their gorgeous little daughter from Ethiopia named Lucy….”

            “I just…I mean, I think adoption is a wonderful thing if you can’t have a baby. Adoption is great for gay couples…”

            [Insert and unintentionally homophobic conversation.]

            “In the gay relationship, who is the alpha?”

            “You know what!” I exclaimed, raging with anger. “I don’t care what you say. I’m going to adopt a baby from Ethiopia! A little gay baby! And she will be beautiful! How would you like them apples? Hmmm?”

            Annual holiday feud aside, I’m still seriously considering adoption. No matter what your aunt, or your gynecologist, or Mitt Romney says, a baby is a blank canvas. Sure, it might not be your own blood, but you can certainly implement parts of yourself into his or her life-especially with the perfect name. *