(Eliza Rose, found from here)
"What's in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet."
Last night I learned that our family has welcomed a new little boy into the world, by the way of my husbands cousin. A new life is a prescious thing, and with a new life comes a name.
The name that his parents chose for their special gift just happens to be the name we had chosen for a son, if we were ever blessed with one.
And whilst I am happy for the husbands cousin (who I don't know very well, I think I have met her less than fice times in eight years), I am sad for the fact that we won't be able to ever use that name.
The name is a family name to me, and is the name of my great grandfather, a man who I idolised growing up. My Pa and I had a special bond, quite possibly because I was the only great grandchild he had. I have fond memories of him telling me the story of Jane Duff, a story which holds special meaning to him, as he lived close by.
But this got me thinking about Shakespeare, and how we put so much meaning into a word by which we call ourselves. Why do we put so much emphasis on a word, that is shared with quite possibly millions of other people in the world. Take my name, April. Whilst it is reasonably uncommon, it is not unique. The reasoning I was named April quite possibily is, however the word is not.
The logical side of my brain is yelling at me to move on, yet I still feel sad. The husband doesn't see the great deal and is still happy to use the name, as we rarely see them. But to me it's just not the same.
What do you think?
For those wondering, I was named April after my Great Gran and my Grandma being born in April, and my mother meant to be born in April. When I came along in July I had to follow the trend of the previous 3 generations, and was given the name to carry on. Pin It