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January 15, 2015

Changing My Son's Name

Back when I was an expectant mother, I spent many a night prodding, fiddling, and planning my unborn’s future in my head. There were certain things I knew I wanted to veer away from being and becoming, like the mom that builds a box around their child and expects encourages them to stay inside- pushing them into activities that don’t necessarily interest the child as much as it does the parent (as I force him to gas up his power wheels, lol). And there were things I knew I couldn’t control or predict, like what exactly those interests would be (great, he likes “The Doodlebops?” See mom twitch.). But beneath the mass of infinite unknowns emerged one major power within my control: His name. 

Well that was too easy. For one, I didn’t have to care whether or not he liked his name because you get what you get. (Hah!) And secondly, I had already picked out and stowed a name away in my back pocket years ago. However, a potential deal breaker did exist and was completely dependent on one thing: the initials. Initials may seem frivolous to some, but trust me- they’re important. Just ask George Owen Davis, who ended up a lawyer and is forever dubbed “God” by his colleagues and clients. (Though Georgie boy doesn’t have it as bad as Farrah Alexandra Thomas.) That wouldn’t be my kid, I promised myself. I was going to do him right, be responsible, and give my son a decent set of initials. 

And it worked out! My first choice, Dylan, fit perfectly with my husband’s “one mandate” of a middle name (“Isaiah”). The final product? D.I.Z. I loved it! DIZ BABY! This made me DIZ MOMMY! Yay! I began making big proclamations that Dylan’s official nickname would be “Diz.” Diz would be what I called him around the house, what name I’d cheer from the sidelines, and the name others would pick up by mere exposure. I had it all figured out (in theory). Only now that I have a Diz and he’s a big time talker who knows his own name, he’s not “Dylan” and he ain’t a “Diz.” According to my son, he’s “Ding Ding.” 

Yup. Ding Ding. At first I was all, “Aww! That’s so cute! He can’t say Dylan so he says DING DING!” I chuckled, I partook, and I called out for my little Ding Ding as time went on until one day I stopped and realized that everyone else was calling him Ding Ding, too. How could I blame them? It’s infectious, this whole “ding ding” business. 

And I still chuckle at the use of Ding Ding; only now, I'm chuckling at myself for assuming I had a super naming power to begin with. So when you hear me shouting Ding Ding from afar, please know that I’m not announcing Table 4’s order is ready from the back of a kitchen diner, I’m referring to my son. (And yes, table 4’s order is probably ready.) 

Welcome to parenthood, where even your child’s name is to be determined (especially for Thomas Bradley Daniels).