It's a natural and understandable urge to name a child after oneself, but consider please the consequences.
My mother's name is Judith. My father's name is James. Two guesses what they came up with for their only daughter and first son. My bestest cousin was named for his father Bernard John.
It seems to be a natural law that two people can not occupy the same name at the same time and thus my brother was known only by his middle name, Eric. My cousin B.J. got the initial treatment and I got the double dose first-and-middle-as-one-name Judi Sue.
In my case, my favorite Aunt is also Judith leading to bad "Judy, Judy, Judy" Cary Grant imitations by older folks and scholarly comments from others like "I thought that name was dead and here there are three of you" as if we were some kind of cave writing.
Without discussing the matter among ourselves or at home, I declared myself just Judi (with an i, thank you) in grade school. My brother insisted on learning to write his real name "Jim" in kindergarten and only signed his papers in that way. As soon as B.J. discovered other possibilities for those particular initials, he opted for Bernie instead of the Barney his father used.
But to all the older family members we were and will always be Eric, B.J. and Judi Sue.
Bernie and Jim entered adulthood introducing themselves only by their new (actual) names. I moved about 1,200 miles away where I could call myself anything I pleased.
My daughters are 21 and 20 and adore their uncles Jim and Bernie. It is not a concidence that the girl's names are uniquely their own in our extended families.
My last name has changed a couple of times in my adult life, but the first part as been easy. Judi. Just Judi. All my employers, my friends, every piece of ID in my wallet agrees. I buried the dreaded Sue for good by legally replacing "Susan" with my maiden name "Mohn" when I married Charlie.
Rest assured Bernie, Jim and I NEVER call each other by those other names.
But our parents, aunts, uncles and older cousins still haven't got the memo. They like the names they picked out and will continue to stand firm in habit.
In preparing to move to back to Buffalo I'm hearing the dreaded moniker more and more. I'm now old enough to have my own grandchildren (no hurry there girls , thank you), but in three syllables I am instantly reduced to pigtails in a sandbox.
I have to guess Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde was named for his parent. Sybill too. It's a divided kind of life.
A couple of times I've nearly closed the door or hung up the phone when someone asked for Bob, until I remember that my husband, Charles Robert Griggs, already had a grandfather and two uncles named Charlie when he was young. So he gets it. No matter how much I tick him off, he will never call me Judi Sue.
Yesterday, I was sending copies of my resume for referral to older cousins in Western New York who have done well in business. The resumes, of course, said Judi Mohn Griggs.
But it wasn't until after I'd sealed them that it dawned on me.
The notes were signed "Judi Sue."

Copyright 2004 Judi Griggs