Baby Cashew

I was five weeks pregnant, skinnier than I'll ever be again and aware of it for the first time, and buying baby name and pregnancy fact books at Meijer (it's like Wal-Mart, with a conscience, and Wisconsin desperately needs one here).

That night, sitting on my mom's couch, Dave and I picked out girls' names we liked, narrowing it down to about five. Olivia. Emma. Isabelle. Tegan. Abigail.

It was all perfect. People said "awww," and gave their opinions on each. But a few weeks later, I checked the oh-so-addicting Social Security Administration Web site's baby name page and found all but Tegan were in the top 10 or 15.

Then I found a name somewhere in the top-hundreds. Lucy. I asked Dave and he said "I've never thought about that name ... Now I can't get it out of my head." Lucy Wasinger. Lucy, Lucy. I thought we'd found it. We could stop calling the baby our little cashew -- she could have a name!

But the next morning, while brushing my teeth, I stopped mid-brush and stared at myself in the mirror. Lucy. No. I can't. WHY didn't I think of this? I thought. Calmly finishing and sitting at the table moments later, I said "It can't be Lucy."

"Why?"

"Carly's dog. Her name is Lucy."

"I thought it was Lou-Lou."

"I think that's the nickname. Call your brother."

But his brother confirmed his girlfriend's dog's name was, indeed, Lucy.

"So ... Joe. If you could, you know ... 'off' that dog, you know ... I'm just saying."

Great. Now we have attempted murder on our hands. Lucy's out. The dog lives.

And yes, we have a boy's name. But that's secret for now. I'm hormonal, and likely to get angry when strangers scrunch their noses up and say "Ewww, you want THAT name? What are you naming, a goldfish?"

Written Oct. 19