Before I got pregnant I had so many names for my future children. I remember loving the name Ella for a long, long time, but then when I got pregnant and knew it was a girl Ella was no longer what I wanted. Eric and I went back and forth over baby names because we never agreed on anything, except Charlotte Shea. Charlotte because it was pretty and elegant and girly, and Shea for Shea stadium, former home of the Mets. Charlotte literally means petite and feminine. What a perfect choice for my little girl.
Except, is it really? Charlotte is not petite or feminine. She does not exude the grace or girlish ways I thought she would. She does not like dolls or castles or princesses. She likes balls and destruction and banging on pots and pans. She hates dresses and getting her hair put up. She hates headbands and bows. She hates everything that radiates femininity. I should have named her Butch. Or Bertha. Or Sid, like the psycho kid from Toy Story.
Obviously I would have never known this when I birthed her, and I understand her style and choices may change. But I see girls her age who already love their baby dolls and getting dressed up and all she wants to do is kick a ball around or climb on top of her toy box to jump off the side with her Cousin It hair cascading down her face. I’m not saying anything is wrong with this. In fact, I love her personality and think it’s a strong dose of getting hit with the reality that our kids are never really what we expect them to be. I just think it’s funny that I call out that dainty little name that we gave her as shes ripping her ponytail out of her head and asking for Pete.
She is nothing like the Charlotte I imagined. She’s better. Maybe I should just start calling her Sid though.
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