The boy hated his name. It made him want to hide in the shadows and question his parents’ wisdom. But the nonsensical tag was more the mother’s doing than the father’s.
The couple had never gotten along, and every decision was treated as a point of contention. So the birth of their son couldn’t be any different.
When names were being explored and openly spoken, the father had listed his choices:
Now the mother couldn’t find anything wrong with the three, so she put her foot down and huffed her vague disapproval. What was so special about names that could be found on every street corner?
Her boy deserved a name that would makes heads turn. But the woman couldn’t figure out the appropriate moniker. And the due date came and went, but the boy and his name were missing.
Then one grey evening, a hospital visit revealed that the unborn baby wasn’t breathing. In rushed the doctor and nurses and with them hobbled the parents’ fears. What if their son didn’t make it? Would they say goodbye to an unnamed child?
But a hurried C-section halted the damage and out came a wrinkled mass. Three swift whacks and a hard shake could make anyone wail. And the boy’s cries echoed till the end of the hallway.
Relieved and exhausted, the mother wept while the father slept, and the naming ceremony was again forgotten. One night and half a day later, a grim looking nurse approached the parents with a serious question – What’s the boy’s name?
The mother and father then looked at each other. Their stiff tongues relaxed, but only the woman’s voice boomed in the room.
The father wasn’t too happy with his wife’s choice and ridiculed it there and then. He called it absurd and said it sounded too much like dryer, crier, and fryer. The boy would be teased for the rest of his life.
Then began the usual fight. Voices rose and hot words catapulted. The nurse sat down to rest her feet. The argument seemed endless. When it appeared to be going nowhere, the mother screamed and pulled her own hair. No one would stand in her way. Not even her husband, an ugly, balding creature.
So the nurse was asked to state her favorite flower. Not fond of roses or petunias, daisies or tulips, allergic to poppies and lilacs, the woman said cuckoo flowers weren’t too bad. And that was that. The boy had found a name and the mother had spited her husband.
But the worst was yet to come, not in the first name but the last. The birth certificate read:
Thanks to bullies, the word ‘crazy’ was appropriately added later.
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