Her family had not had quite so particular a naming scheme – most of their names were quite ordinary (Zipporah’s was really the most biblical and unusual of their lot, and at this juncture, for the first time in her life, Jemima wondered whether the more eccentric the name the more eccentric the character... but perhaps that was just Zippy.)
And Ford might be protesting his own input in this matter – maybe it was a mother’s domain entirely; Jemima wouldn’t know, since no one had thought to tell her yet the full list of a mother’s responsibilities – but it felt like so big a decision to make. Or, rather, she just felt fundamentally incapable of making decisions in life, because it felt like she always made the wrong ones. And if there was anything she didn’t want for this child, it was to suffer for her choices.
(It was all a little late for that, given the succession of decisions and mistakes she and Ford had made to find themselves here.)
“Well, I have ideas enough,” Jemima assured him, and she glanced at him hopefully, “but you ought to say if you don’t like one.” She wasn’t sure if a name would help increase anyone’s fondness for a child, but she did want to give this baby the best start towards it, if she could. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to recall all the names she had scribbled on her list at home. “I had Felicity – which I suppose now is not really a virtue at all –” for it was less a quality of character, and more a vague wish for what they might find in life; “and then I liked – Beatrice. Phoebe. Clara. Louisa. Lydia. Marianne...”
And Ford might be protesting his own input in this matter – maybe it was a mother’s domain entirely; Jemima wouldn’t know, since no one had thought to tell her yet the full list of a mother’s responsibilities – but it felt like so big a decision to make. Or, rather, she just felt fundamentally incapable of making decisions in life, because it felt like she always made the wrong ones. And if there was anything she didn’t want for this child, it was to suffer for her choices.
(It was all a little late for that, given the succession of decisions and mistakes she and Ford had made to find themselves here.)
“Well, I have ideas enough,” Jemima assured him, and she glanced at him hopefully, “but you ought to say if you don’t like one.” She wasn’t sure if a name would help increase anyone’s fondness for a child, but she did want to give this baby the best start towards it, if she could. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to recall all the names she had scribbled on her list at home. “I had Felicity – which I suppose now is not really a virtue at all –” for it was less a quality of character, and more a vague wish for what they might find in life; “and then I liked – Beatrice. Phoebe. Clara. Louisa. Lydia. Marianne...”
