The other day I found this eponymous pad I’d had when I was little. On the back it listed all of the different names that were sold on top of the pad. In my eternal need to categorize, it looked like I had crossed off the names of people I knew. I guess when I was 8, there were no Ritas in my life.
Last night with a few people over, the pad sparked a conversation about — inevitable in a group of 30 year old girls with some wine in them — baby names. That awkward moment of “If I tell you my name do you promise not to take it?” proceeded to occur. But really, what if my name is your name? What if, across the room at a dinner party, you find another future mother-of-Chloe?
I think the answer is there’s no harm in two. Everyone should have the name they want, and if there are a bunch of Chloes running around (there already are), all it means is Chloe will get her name on the pad. Which, when you’re an 8-year-old, is all you really want.
