Baby Names.

Names, eh?

Happily, I like my name.

Maybe I just grew to like it, but there was never a time that I can remember where I didn’t like it. I know folks whose name, and by extension their parents, they hate a little bit. I knew a chap called Francis back in school who hated his name with a passion; he goes by Frank now though. The only gripe I’ve ever had with my own is the fact that my given name is actually technically my middle name on my birth certificate - Samuel Jonathan Cardwell - and whenever people found out I’d have to explain the situation, which I’ve done countless times, or whenever you went into a new school year and the teacher called out Samuel Cardwell, and I’d have to explain it all over again. Also, to this day, when people find out they think it hilarious to call me ‘Sammy’ until I explain the situation once more, and they get bored.

Or I punch them in the throat.

But recently Jenny has come up with a few baby names and asked me to think of some as well. It’s a fairly big task for anyone; naming another human being. And although you say ‘baby names’ that’s not what you’re doing at all; you’re deciding on what they will be known as for their entire life.

That’s a pretty big thing if you ask me.

There are various factors one has to…um, factor in when naming your unborn.

1. You have to agree on the name with your partner.

This is the big one in my opinion. You can’t just acquiesce to whatever name the other person picks. You can’t call your child a name that you don’t like. Every time you do so, you’ll be reminded of how you were overruled in the naming of someone you helped create, breeding animosity and eventually murder.

Maybe. Probably not.

But I still feel a bit bad that I named our cat Oscar without fully consulting the wife over what she wanted to call him.

2. It can’t be a weird name.

Weird names are alright for celebrity kids. They’re expected to have weird names. It’s like a right of passage. They send their kids to expensive private schools with other odd named kids and therefore their own child’s name seems normal by comparison. Not in the real world, sweetheart. If you name your child ‘Fuchsia’ or ‘Marigold’ your child is going to be mercilessly mocked in school, at work and by everyone, none more so than by her/his own father. Basically, if it sounds like it could a stripper name, don’t call your child that. I think that’s one of Ten Commandments or something.

3. Famous people/fictional characters

This sort of ties in with the above point, but the amount of times I’ve cringed after hearing a mum calling her child and screaming ‘Rhianna’ or ‘Britney’ in a thick Belfast brogue is probably in triple figures. Just because you like said singers and/or their names doesn’t mean it sounds good shouting it up the stairs when it’s dinner time. And more often than not it doesn’t fit in with your surname; Rhianna sounds all exotic and mysterious, but if your surname is Smith it sort of shatters the illusion a bit, doesn’t it? As for fictional characters, we all want to call our kids after a character that we like from literature, or film and TV (don’t we?) but very few have the balls to, because the names that stick out are usually the weird ones, and as we learned from point 2 they’re a big no-no. And as much as I think it’d be cool to call our first born Dean and any potential future child Sam (even if they’re girls. Ha!), there’s no way I ever would because it’s just…wrong. Clementine is out as well to my chagrin, even if it was myself that vetoed it.

4. Classical, yet modern.

Names, apparently, go in and out of fashion. And when I heard this I started thinking about the names of my chums and people my own age and it’s true; there are a lot of people named Adam, David, Christopher and a hell of a lot of folks called Jonathan, let me tell you. So maybe those names were an 80’s thing. Yet now, they don’t seem to be as prominent. The done thing now appears to be going for more classical sounding names, yet not ones that are so old that you feel like you’ve just given birth to a pensioner. I don’t want to give out the list of the names we’ve already thought of but they’re all ones that sound like “older” names yet we haven’t gone so far as to be condemning our child to being called Mavis or Archibald. Who knows, maybe there’ll be loads of Mavis’ and Archibald’s running about in 40 years when those names come back into fashion, but right now I’m not going to lumber my son or daughter with a name out of World War 1 that sounds like they should be born with a monocle.

5. Reverence.

My sister’s name is the same as mine. No, not Jonathan. But her given name is also technically her middle name. Her first name on her birth certificate is not what she goes by as is mine. My name is the same as my dad’s and his dad’s (my grandfather) and maybe even further back than that while my sister’s is the name of my maternal grandmother. We haven’t discussed this with any of our parents about whether this is a thing, but it’s something to consider. It’s not a tradition as such (as far as I’m aware) and it’s a nice gesture but I don’t think we’re beholden to call our son (if it’s a boy) Samuel _______ Cardwell, or our daughter Hannah _____ Cardwell. Sorry, this wasn’t a funny point, but a point nonetheless. And I got to use the word ‘beholden.’

6. Originality

You want the name to have some semblance of individuality and John or Jane isn’t really going to cut it, is it? Unless your surname is Doe, in which case you absolutely should, if just for the lols. So you need to think of something suitably different so that there aren’t 14 kids in your child’s preschool group with the same name, yet not so different it contravenes points 2, 3 and 4. Although don’t go too far off the other end and call the child Adolf or Kim Jong or something, hilarious as that might/would be.

7. Uncertain about sex

No, I don’t mean about what goes where. We’re already pregnant, so I’ve worked that out, thanks. I mean because we don’t yet know, and likely won’t until baby is born, whether there’s a boy or a girl in there you have to come up with a list of names for both genders. Which is fine, but as we’ve discovered, sometimes you can come up with girls names quicker than boys ones. We have a list of seven or eight names should it be a girl, with only two boys’ names. Now, we’ll have to come up with some quick-sharpish because if baby’s a he and we don’t have enough names, I probably will end up calling him Adolf Kim Jong Cardwell in a blind panic.

8. Phonetics

The name has to sound right. It has to roll off the tongue. This is where it gets slightly more complicated as you have to take into account the syllables involved and the sounds they make when spoken aloud. It’s all very well having a lot of middle names or double-barrelled monikers but if you sound like you’ve got a mouthful of marbles or have to take a breath halfway through giving your name, then something’s gone wrong. This is another thing you have to take into account when your daughter gets a serious boyfriend; if it’s looking like they might get married and his surname would cause embarrassment (to her, but mostly you), it’s your responsibility to end that shit as quickly as possible, or else you’ll end up like a teacher I had at school called Lynn Lynn. In fact, I met a guy the other day called Andrew Andrews. Seriously. That’s just cruel.  

9. Names of friends/families kids

This is the most annoying one. You find a name that works, that you and your partner have spent ages thinking about and actually agree on, that adheres to all the rules laid out above, it’s not too weird but it’s different enough to stand out and it sounds right spoken aloud, only to find that some other bastard parents have decided on the exact same name. And because their baby has pipped yours to the post by having the gall to be born first it forces you to come up with another less good name. And it’s always someone who’s close enough to your own family/circle of friends to have it be annoying. It’s never the second cousin of a relative you’ve never heard of. It’s always your bloody brother or sister or cousin or uncle or close friend or SOMEONE. The assholes. Anyway, the point is it’s always someone who, if you proceed with your perfect name, you’ll look like you were copying even when you weren’t or worse, that you couldn’t think of a name yourself and just went for the easiest solution, copying the name of the most recent child to be born.

Parents are dicks.

And finally…

10. The Homer Test

Marge: Homer, if the baby's a boy, what do you think about the name Larry?
Homer: Marge, we can't do that. All the kids will call him Larry Fairy.
Marge: How about Louie?
Homer: They'll call him Screwy Louie.
Marge: Bob?
Homer: Slob.
Marge: Luke?
Homer: Puke.
Marge: Marcus?
Homer: Mucus.
Marge: What about Bart?
Homer: Hmm, let's see. Bart, Cart, Dart, E-art... nope, can't see any problem with that

Works every time.  

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So yeah, we’re still no closer to choosing a name, but its early days yet, right?

RIGHT???

"Porno mags and wet wipes."

Continuing from here. Have a read.

So, the day of my appointment to spend some quality time with myself eventually arrived. It was the weirdest, most oddly terrifying experience I’ve encountered in my adult life. I think the thing that made it so weird was the fact that I was given a time and a place to do it. I mean that’s fairly odd, right? Being told when and where you have to have a wank.

Also my wife was with me.

My wife.

Accompanied me.

To the hospital.

For my wanking appointment.

I know that we were doing this because were trying to find out what (if anything) was wrong with either of us because we weren’t conceiving but it was still pretty fucking weird.

For starters, the person behind the counter in the department I was going to - Masturbatory Ward? - was a woman. Now I know she was a doctor/nurse/medical professional and wasn’t nearly as embarrassed as I was, but when I dinged the bell (not a euphemism) and said I was here for my appointment I felt like she was judging me and made me think that I was doing something seedy and immoral. I think I might even have winked on the word ‘appointment.’ And this wasn’t even the first person I had told that morning. Before reaching the correct part of the hospital, I had to say to the girl behind the counter at reception. Hospitals being what they are, I imagine they know what kind of appointments occur at certain times of the day, so when I told the girl at reception I was here for my appointment, she may have said “3^rd floor” but what I heard was “I know why you’re here, you dirty beggar.” This sort of thing doesn’t exactly relax one before you have to perform an act of onanism. 

Anyway, we sat in the waiting room for about ten minutes and then my name was called for me to have the most organised wank in history. The nurse walked me to the room, provided me with my receptacle and sort of…instructed me on what to do. I didn’t interrupt with any variation on ‘don’t worry, love. I’ve done this plenty of times’ mostly because I was worried about the size of the container. It was tiny. I wasn’t entirely sure of the logistics of how this would work. Do I place the tip into the cup? Do I vacuum seal it to the end of my penis? And what if I…missed the target? What if, in the heat of the moment, I forget why I’m there and accidentally spaff all over the wall? It’s still fairly early in the morning and I highly doubt I have another one in me. The only thing that would come out would be dust. And if I did miss, I’d have to wait at least twenty minutes before I physically could try again. Would I just stay in the room that whole time or go back out into the waiting room, ashamed and dirty, and then go back in again? Just to reiterate, not exactly relaxed.

The room itself didn’t help matters. There was a cavalcade of things in there that made the task in hand (ha!) infinitely more difficult. The drab décor and unremarkableness of the small room reminded me of the store that the huts in school had. You know the ones that were usually behind the teacher’s desk. Only instead of the extra jotters, stationary and sweets that normally live there, there were porno mags and wet wipes. Oh, and the chair. The chair that one assumes they expect you to sit on while you’re going about your business. I didn’t know much at this stage but I knew that I was definitely not going to be sitting in that chair. God knows what amount of bodily fluids that chair has absorbed over the years; it’d probably squelch if I sat on it. It made me wish I had a blacklight, and then immediately made me glad that I didn’t because I likely would have run out screaming and gone home to shower with bleach.

Anyway, the nurse left to let me get on with it but not before telling me about the “materials provided” to help me with “providing my specimen.” That’s “porno mags” to help me “cum in a cup” in layman’s terms. They were collected in a box file, which instantly made me think of where my dad used to keep all the bank letters and tax return forms. Not really the sexiest of thoughts. On the top of the box file there was a little note stuck to the front (with sellotape, you filthy bastards!) that said “To help the process along, pornographic materials have been provided. However some may find these images offensive so please return all materials to the box after use and close tightly.” I don’t care how offensive you might find them; if they weren’t there and I just had to rely on my own imagination, I’d probably still be in there now.

I opened the box. I thought of asking for gloves before handling any of the contents, but that might have looked like I was into some weird sexual shit with rubber gloves and a ball gag.

And I don’t think hospitals stock ball gags.

Inside was a variety of your standard nude-y magazines. Like…loads of them, in various states of disrepair; some were still mostly in tact, others were ripped to shreds while in some cases there were just loose pages. I wondered to myself how furiously one would have to masturbate to completely dismantle a magazine, then decided it was better not to think about other men wanking when I was just about to. I laid the magazines out on the horrible horrible chair of bleurgh, and went about doing what I came to do. Or doing what I did to come. Either works.

After a while, and when I properly focused on the task instead of being distracted by reading the small print on the sex lines ads - “Two minute long intro. £1.50 for the first minute. 75p for each additional minute” seemed to be the norm - or being worried about the fact that I still had to go to work straight after this appointment - “They’re all going to know. Oh God, they’re all going to know. I don’t know how but they will” - the…moment arrived. Or was arriving. It was close to getting here is what I’m saying. Past the point of no return. I grabbed the receptacle. I stuck my thumb under the lid and tried to pop it off. It appeared to be stuck.

I looked at the lid. There was a safety seal on it.

Fuck! Fucking fuck!

It was basically a race against time now to see what would get off first. Me or the lid. I frantically grasped at the seal to ping it off, each second ticking away I was becoming ever closer to my earlier fear of accidentally spaffing all over the wall. Or worse, the chair. I would be adding my DNA to the melting pot of hundreds of other men before, particularly the furious masturbator. And no-one wants to be associated with him. After what seemed like an eternity the lid came off and I, rather unceremoniously and after pointing my old chap in the right direction, deposited my specimen with mere moments to spare. Sweating and exhausted, through fear more than exertion, I slumped down on the chair. I didn’t care anymore about the melting pot of DNA and hoped the magazine I had set on it was a suitable barrier between me and it. I popped the lid on, pulled my trousers up and exited the room.

Holding the sample in my hands I walked towards the window where the nurse was. All of this couldn’t have taken anymore than ten minutes. There was no-one in the corridor when I went in, but when I came back to hand in my sample, it had filled up considerably. The corridor, I mean. Three people were standing there talking as I exited the room, cup of sperm in hand, visible for all to see through the clear container. I smiled a defeated smile and walked to the window to hand of my cup to the nurse. I dandered sheepishly back to the waiting room where my wife was still sitting. It’s an odd experience knowing that while I was doing what I was doing my wife was sat metres away at the end of a corridor also knowing exactly what I was doing. Thankfully, she didn’t bring it up.

For about ten seconds. After which she just started laughing at me and my obvious awkwardness. I suppose that was fair enough, she’s been poked and prodded at countless doctors’ visits and had a barrage of tests and the like done to her what with blood tests, urine samples, internal examinations and never once has she complained. All I had to do was wank in a cup.

We left the ward soon after, passing by the people who’d just seen me hand in my specimen. I tried my hardest not to look at any of them in the eyes. Their judgemental disapproving eyes. 

I’ve never been so glad to leave a hospital in my life.

"Pliable pantaloons!"

I am extremely jealous of my wife’s maternity jeans. They look and sound like the best thing ever. Elasticated jeans.

Elasticated.

Jeans.

All the comfort and flexibility of jogging bottoms but without the slightly chavvy connotations that going out somewhere wearing them would invite. Because to the untrained eye they look exactly like jeans.

Because they are jeans.

Elasticated ones. They’re basically clown pants. And they’re bloody brilliant.

They should make them for everyone. Not just pregnant women, but all women. All men too. Think about it; no more belts, zips or awkward buttons, no more uncomfortable fullness when you’re out for dinner as the trousers will just expand as your stomach does, no more fannying about at urinals either as you can just whip the whole shebang down and have a P1 pee.*

[And because they are jeans you avoid the awkwardness that you get with jogging bottoms; that being that your package never bloody sits still and is basically on display for all to gawp at. For men, obviously. I don’t think women have that problem.]

And when middle age hits and my waistline no doubt expands further, I’ll not have to buy new trousers. Oh no! Buying new trousers is for mugs. My elasticated jeans will simply grow as I do. They’ll always fit perfectly. So cast off your belts, my friends. Embrace the joyous invention of stretchy slacks! The pleasure of pliable pantaloons! The brilliance of bendy britches! The majesty of malleable…uh…I can’t think of a synonym for trousers that starts with M.

Waist sizes will become a thing of the past. We’ll no longer have to worry about what size we are in my flexible vision of the future. We can just all get fat and not care at all about weight, and our trousers will simply keep up with our ever increasing guts.

Although…

This is beginning to sound like the start of our slow decline into the humans from WALL-E; rotund, immobile blobs incapable of movement.

Maybe we should just let the pregnant women keep their stretchy trousers, eh?

Probably for the best.