The Susan Sequel

Last week, my husband had minor foot surgery. Don’t worry, he’s fine but since the surgery, we’ve spent a lot of quality time together doing nothing at home (those words and the Petosa family don’t usually go together). We only had one little spat when he was particularly cranky, so I consider it a successful recovery (I now request you officially refer to me as Florence Nightingale). I’m actually going a little stir crazy myself and that’s saying a lot, as I am a big fan of my cozy, couch time. Lucky for us, we got a special visit from Hannah and from our amazing family and friends who came by to keep us company, making the time pass just a little quicker.  I’m making it sound worse than it was; all things considered, Frank has been a pretty good patient, even if he is losing patience with all the sedentary time in his beloved recliner!

Saturday night, my friends Sumaya and Asif came for dinner and, after a few bottles of excellent red wine, she told me that her grandmother’s name is Rhoda (I guess I had never asked before). She’s 103 and we actually discuss her pretty often, mostly because I’m fascinated by her longevity. I then found out that Rhoda’s sibling’s names were Norman and Ruth. Keeping in mind that this whole conversation took place after two bottles of wine and a plethora of cold medicines (on top of everything, I was sick the whole weekend), we proceeded to discuss whether or not they were Jewish. Of course, I know her family isn’t, she’s a combination of Irish and Egyptian, but those are traditionally Jewish sounding names, even though her grandmother’s family was German. Frank and Asif, pretending to ignore us, thought this whole conversation was ridiculous but it got me thinking about names and what they actually reflect about a person (excluding my stereotypical religious connotations).

I remember being pregnant with Hannah and spending countless hours doodling what would be her name on a yellow, legal pad (clearly, I wasn’t that busy at work). She was named after my grandfather, Harold, who had passed away just before I found out that I was pregnant (Hannah was the name I always dreamed I would one day give to my daughter).  We decided that her middle name would honor Frank’s grandmother and I used to write hundreds of different A names in between Hannah and Petosa, hoping that the perfect one would magically appear. Wanting to be a little trendy (I am lots of things but trendy isn’t one of them), we ultimately chose Alexis as her middle name.  And, after making the “official” name announcement to my family, my sister promptly responded that Hannah Alexis Petosa sounded like a venereal disease (to this day, Hannah still reminds me about this). Hannah doesn’t like her middle name and quite frankly, I don’t really care. I think it’s a beautiful, it suits her and any venereal disease would be lucky to share it with her.

When I found out I was pregnant with my second, I was 100% convinced it would be another girl. I have a sister and never imagined that I would have a son (what would I do with all of Hannah’s old clothes). So, in an abundance of caution, I focused on the name Sam, thinking it worked for either a Samantha or a Samuel. Frank, always the optimist, was convinced that the baby was a boy. He tortured me with his preferred name choices, based mainly on his Italian heritage (use your imagination: Giovanni, Dante, Anthony, etc)  He even pretended that he hated the name Sam, for either a girl or a boy. On the day of my sonogram, after massive amounts of caffeine to get the baby to open its legs, we “met” our Samuel.  After the excitement waned, Frank offered me a deal, right there in the OB’s office… I could choose the baby’s first name if he could choose the middle name.  In my caffeinated state, I figured there was no way he would come up with anything that I would find remotely objectionable and I agreed to his terms (this exchange is a classic example of what happens when two lawyers conceive a child).  Unbeknownst to me, he had pre-planned this whole scenario, always intending to name his potential son Vincent. Needless to say, I wasn’t thrilled (I now attribute this to the fact that I was four months pregnant and probably hungry). What innocent baby is saddled with a name like Samuel Vincent Petosa? However, Frank was smart and pulled off this whole operation in front of my mother, otherwise known as the founding member of the Frank Petosa fan club, and she made me promise to uphold my side of the deal. Frank was ecstatic at his victory and reminded me that the name Vincent was in honor of his beloved grandfather, Vincenzo (as he also reminded me, he could have given the baby that name).  Once Sam was born, I embraced the name Vincent and actually grew to both love it and the story of how it came to be. Most of all, I love that Sam loves the name Vincent, that he knows what we went through to choose it for him and that he fully embraces the familial nickname, Sammy Vinny, that goes along with it.

I believe that names define you. Be it the spelling, the pronunciation and/or the story behind it, I have a deep appreciation for names.  Recently, I was discussing names with Sumaya (as I’m writing this, I realize that she and I apparently discuss names a lot). She’s half Egyptian and her name means “high above” in Arabic.  I think it’s a beautiful name and I’ve been friends with her for so long that I don’t even notice that it’s unusual (in America, at least). The reason for this particular discussion was because she was appalled to find out that the Chinese women at the nail salon I frequent use American names at work because their clients supposedly can’t pronounce their given Chinese names.  Honestly, I had never thought about it but I suppose being raised with an unusual name makes you think about these types of things.  I don’t even know my nail tech’s real name, she goes by Sue. However, according to Sumaya, Sue shouldn’t be obligated to accommodate her clients ignorance; rather, the clients should be willing to learn her real name. After thinking about it, I decided that I agree and I actually feel bad that I don’t know Sue’s given name (I am absolutely going to ask her this week & will let you know what it is, after I learn to pronounce it).

What do you think? Should I call Sue by her given name? What about Lily and Ivy? Or is this much ado about nothing? Did you also pick out your kids’ names out in high school? Let me know your thoughts. Happy Monday!