about names

“Mom, tell me,” Patricija presses close, eyes wide and round, “did Dad come up with THIS name for me?”

I meet her gaze and, even trying to recall—“which one”—I can’t remember. “Patricija” seemed to suit him best.

“And what’s wrong with your name?” I ask.

“It’s so childish,” she blurts out, as if it were “elementary, Watson.” “When I was little, it was fine, but think, Mom,” my daughter continues, “how will I look when I’m like you?”

At first, I want to clarify what she means by “like you,” but all I manage to say is:

“Normal!”

“Where’s normal?” she sighs.

“So what name would be right for you when you grow up?” I ask, genuinely curious.

“Well… at least something like Viktoria or something similar. Like Danutė…” (that’s her Grandma’s name).

I could have been surprised.

But out of nowhere, my own childhood memories catch up with me.

At school there were lots of Kristinas, a few Donatas, a couple Aušras.

And the one Viktoria in the entire school.

You think, “That’s fine”?

No way, bro. Terribly not fine!

At the start of my life, I would have given anything if someone had allowed me to “swap” that Viktoria for, say, Kristė.

And then along came “Viktarytė” and “Vikaliukas”—and things got even worse.

Viktarytė—like “little silly,” and Vikaliukas—like “little poop.”

It didn’t help at all that my parents and everyone else seemed to agree that this was the QUEEN’S NAME!

Supposedly, I should feel some kind of crown’s weight, “wearing” such a name.

But no aristocracy ever pressed on my young shoulders.
I just wanted to be “Kristė.” Period.

The good news is, elephant-sized dissatisfaction with your own name slowly fades with the years.

Even when “magic spells” to convince your parents to change it to “something more normal” fail.

Do you have any stories about your own name?

Mua,
V.