Hey. Ho. Lets. Go.

A Rose by any other name, as they say.

Only we cant really picture Rose for a name for our lass.
Or Chloe.
Or Mia.
Or ...

This naming thing is insanely subjective and hence, being a couple of dorky objective scientists, we've been lost for weeks.

We need an Arts graduate.

That said, by the grace of Ford we've finally reached some sort of conclusion, so if she comes towards the light tonight (a whole three days early... ) she'll have a label that we can tolerate.

Being boffins we still needed to apply some objectivity, hence the application of dad-to-be-again's patented "Ned Kelly" test.

Imagine you're Judge Redmond Barry with a booming voice and a penchant for sending person or persons to the gallows.

"Mabel Dorothy Watkins, you have been tried by this court and sentenced to be..."

If the court doesn't erupt into sniggers then the name fits.

Our current selection appears to fit the test.
(And sorry, you haven't got a scoop - we're not calling her Mabel, wonderful as that name was for Dad-to-be's amazing Nana at the turn of the previous century...)

The other all important consideration at this time is the birth plan.

For Rufous (now known as Master M), the birthplan extended to candles and music and do this and don't do that and, well, about three A4 pages of specifics.

Which all got thrown out the window when the little sod refused to come out.

Hence, the birthplan is as follows:
No pethidine please.
Don't forget to feed dad-to-be.
Bribe nurses with jelly beans.
Get the girl out.

(Oh, and a TENS machine comes in there somewhere.)

On the home front the bassinet is ready, the cots been prepped, nappies (in pink non-willy versions) been bought, and mum-to-be's got plastic bags on the car seat in case her waters break en route.

Thats about it.
As the Ramones would say,
Hey. Ho. Lets. Go.

As for Master M; on 26/7/2009 we reached Generation Why?

There we were in the car when Mistress P spotted Master M in the back seat chowing down on a Thomas the Tank engine book.
As you do.

"Dont eat the book Michael..." said mum.
"Why?"
"Cos its not food."
"Why?"
"Cos its a library book."
"Why?"
{Dad enters the fray..}
"COS DAD SAYS SO."
"why..."

We can't say we weren't warned.

Finally, we are somewhat worried we have bred a hardcore capitalist or worse; an economist.

Dinner table.
"We have peaches and yoghurt for dessert Mike, what do you want?" asked mum.
{Mike, in muffled tones with those great big eyelashes batting}
"Icecream..."
"We dont have any icecream Michael"
{more batting of eyelids...}

"Buy it..!"

Buy it?
Where the hell did this concept of the monetary system come from??
'Buy it?'
Ay Kurumba.

But yes, a Rose by any other name. Print this post