Today we took Elisha into town to register her birth. As seems to be the pattern with anything remotely exciting, like being taken to the park for the first time, or on a walk to the shops, she slept through the whole thing. Not that I expected her to be sitting bolt upright and taking notes so she can recant it all during a milk break at nursery;
Did you have a nice registrar? Really? Mine was alright, I suppose – friendly, but quite obviously intoxicated by the power she wielded over us. Oh, and the barely concealed disgust because mummy and daddy aren’t married was unprofessional at best.
There had been a little bit of encouragement from my mum for us to choose a middle name for her, as all our family have middle names. Mine is John, after my Grandpa, and like Crazy Uncle John, his son. Not very original, but then I do remember my Grandpa quite fondly, so it does mean something to me.
Fliss doesn’t have a middle name, but, as her mum thought of such a unique first name for her child in the first place, there was probably no need to start showing off with all the other cool names that were on the back burner.
I think Elisha falls into that category – we really like her name and although right now she’s oblivious to the fact the choice has been made for her, we hope she likes it too when she’s old enough to realise it’s what she’s called. Granted, she could think it sucks, so we’ve reserved the space between her first and last names so she can choose her own middle name when she’s old enough to make an informed decision, if she wants.
