I was making the girls' bed, folding blankets, connecting the personalized hot pink blanket emblazoned with a H-A-Z-E-L B-E-A-N. "Do you want a blanket like this, Lula?" I asked.
"Yes, Mommy. But I don't want it to have my middle name. Just my first name. Okay?"
This was a bit of knife to my heart. A dagger to my soul. I take great pride in my naming abilities. I am a name snob. I didn't want to accept that at the tender age of 6, surrounded by Rubys and Violets, that my daughter already had some resistance to her recorded-on-the-birth-certificate middle name, Tangerine.
"Some kids laugh when I tell them my middle name. Katelynn says my middle name is funny."
I inwardly fumed and scrambled. Reaching for the right thing to say. A salve of a response. Something that would bolster her opinion of her fruity moniker. But nothing was coming to mind. So thoughtfully I inquired, "Well, what is Katelynn's middle name?"
She answered with a very matter of fact tone: