In the comments section of my last post Mike expressed interest in how we decided on names for our twin girls. In particular I think he was interested in how we settled on which one would be called what.
So here’s the whole story of the naming of the Schmoops:
We spent months trying to come up with appropriate names. We never did manage to agree on decent male names. Well, that’s not entirely true; we both liked Benjamin and Samuel, but one of my cousins had had twin boys the year before and guess what she called them? So we couldn’t go with that.
Lynda liked Aiden for a boy’s name. I suggested that if both twins were boys we could call them “Aiden” and “Abettin.” For some reason Lynda didn’t want to go with that.
Fortunately we had girls instead, and we had managed to agree on girls’ names. I’ve always liked the name Erin ever since Erin Mulcahey was in my core group back in first year Ryerson. So I suggested Erin and Lynda agreed. We were both interested in celtic names and that certainly fit the bill, although I understand the name Erin is far more popular in North America than it is in Ireland. (For those of you who may not know, Erin means Ireland).
At our friend Alison George’s wedding reception we sat with a woman named Keira, who was Scottish I believe, and when she introduced herself Lynda and I looked at one another and knew we had the second name.
Middle names were a challenge. Lynda’s mother’s name was Anne, although she always called herself Nancy. So for awhile there Erin was going to be Erin Anne Mahoney. I wasn’t keen on the name Anne but figured I would have to lump it, as I had picked the first name. Then it occurred to us that Lynda’s mother had insisted on being called Nancy because she hated the name Anne so much. What a relief. So Erin became Erin Rose because my grandmother’s name was Rose, and my mother’s name Rosaleen.
Keira was harder. We didn’t honour anybody with her middle name. I was driving somewhere one day trying to think of good sounding names and the name Leigh popped into my head. Keira Leigh has a ring to it. I’m always singing, “Keira Leigh, Keira Loo, we love you” to Keira. She doesn’t seem to mind. (So as not to leave Erin out, I sing “Erin Ree, Erin Roo, we love you” to her. She doesn’t seem to mind either.)
As for the order, the girls were born two months premature, so we hadn’t gotten around to deciding the order yet. Literally as they were coming out, the nurse (whose name was Grace) asked us whose name was going to be what. Lynda said, we should call the first one out Erin because she’s “errin’ in her ways” wanting to come out two months early.
I reacted strongly to that, saying, no way can we saddle the child with that as the reason for her name! Which settled it. The first one out became Keira, and the second one out became Erin.
I post this every year on this day for obvious reasons… Happy Valentine’s Day everyone!
My wife Lynda is at work, seven months pregnant and enjoying if not every minute of it, at least every second or third minute of it. I’m at home, painting the nursery. I’m painting the nursery because our twins are due in just two months, and we’re afraid they might be early – you know, like two weeks early – because they’re twins.
So there I am, painting away, and the phone rings. Too late, I missed it. Then it’s ringing again, but my hands are full of brushes and rollers and it’s just too much trouble to go into the next room and answer the phone, except that…
…the darn thing rings again.
This time I know it’s important, if not an emergency, so I high-tail it to the phone and pick it up just in the nick of time. It’s Lynda. She sounds… well, panicked, her voice all quavery, on the verge of tears. “I think my water broke,” she says, and provides details that are watery, messy, and a little scary.
I’m thinking, nah, not possible, we’re two months early here. Clearly she’s misread the signs.
“What are you doing?” she asks me.
“Painting the nursery.”
“Paint faster,” she says.
I’m off like a blue streak to the pharmacy where Lynda works, ready to bundle her into the car, prepared to make the hospital at something resembling four times the speed of light. When I get there Lynda says, “Hang on. Gotta finish up a couple of prescriptions first.”
Excuse me?
It’s obvious to everyone in the store that something is not quite right. “Nothing serious,” I explain to one woman. “She’s about to give birth, is all.”
Twenty minutes later she’s ready to go. We’re in the car. I start the car and we are outta there…
…or so I think.
“Wait!” says Lynda.
“What? What is it? What’s wrong?”
“I forgot my boots.”
I stop the car, run back into the pharmacy and get Lynda’s boots.
She’s weeping a little on the way to Markham-Stouffville Hospital. “I’m scared, Joe. I’m two months early.”
I’m scared too, but I need to reassure her. I don’t know what to say. Lamely, I say, “Everything’ll be okay,” and take hold of her hand. She accepts the hand — for a bit, then gently places it back on the steering wheel. “Two hands,” she says. “Wouldn’t want to get in an accident now.”
I agree, and make it to the hospital accident free. There, we take the wrong hallway, then figure it out and pass a woman facing the wall, a man gently rubbing her back. A glimpse of the future?
Soon we’re in the birthing room, a cheery nurse catering to Lynda’s every need. We’re in good hands, I think, but soon it becomes clear that Markham-Stowville can’t handle little babies that want to arrive two months early. The closest hospital that can is McMaster, in Hamilton. Two young, hip paramedics arrive and transfer a stoic Lynda onto a rolling stretcher, and take her away. I drive to Hamilton, alone in the dark, in the rain. Knowing that I’ve got the easy part.
Lynda’s just over thirty-one weeks – not a big deal, we’re told. Lynda is given medicine to speed the babys’ lung development up. She’s given other medicine to delay the birth as long as possible. Our spirits are good. We’re lucky Lynda’s thirty-one weeks and not less, like many others that come through this ward. Some babies, we’re told, come as early as twenty weeks. It’s heartbreaking — their chances for survival are not good. At thirty-one weeks, the success rate is close to one hundred percent.
Two days later. It’s Valentine’s Day, and our babies have decided they want out now. Decisions are made. Lynda is moved from a cosy little room with pleasant music to a sterile place of white walls and shiny metal beds. I count eighteen people in the room. The anesthetist has a funny little dog on his stethoscope. Lynda is pumped so full of drugs she can’t talk properly. I worry about her.
Our doctor’s name is Lightheart. Did I mention it was Valentine’s Day? Doctor Lightheart explains the use of forceps to her intern, then promptly demonstrates, deftly delivering Keira. Keira lets out a healthy wail and is whisked away to the level 3 neo-natal intensive care unit where I hope they don’t mix her up with another baby.
Suddenly Erin’s heartbeat drops to half the normal rate. The atmosphere in the room changes instantly. Doctor Lightheart reaches inside Lynda farther than I would have imagined possible. Her hand is poking at Lynda’s belly from inside, like a scene right out of Alien. I didn’t know you could DO that!
Finally, the forceps bring Erin out. She doesn’t cry like Keira did – just a brief, muffled chirp. This is because she’s been fitted with a respirator, but she’s fine. She, too, is whisked away to the intensive care unit.
The room empties.
It’s Valentine’s Day.
And I am the proud father of two.
Alfred Hitchcock used to call people who cared too much about logic in stories the Plausibles. He thought the Plausibles were looking for the wrong thing in his movies, that instead of looking for flawless narrative logic, they should yield to the narrative. And it was the job of the storyteller to give the narrative sufficient momentum to compel the audience to do that.
A while back I finished reading the first Harry Potter book to my kids. Afterwards I thought, wow, that was some really solid plotting on Rowling’s part. In my opinion she really set up the ending nicely.
A couple of months later I sat down and rewatched the end of the movie with the girls. And I thought, okay wait a minute. How did Quirrel get through the chess match? It was completely intact when Hermione, Ron and Harry came across it.
The movie doesn’t say how, and neither (I believe) does the book (I haven’t gone back to check yet).
This, of course, makes me a Plausible.
But Rowling produced sufficient narrative momentum that I didn’t notice this logical gap until well after I read the book and saw the film. And I must confess that it wasn’t until after I’d read the book for a second time, and seen the film for a third time that I gave this omission any thought (perhaps I’m not a Plausible after all).
I know that some people probably don’t care. They assume that Voldemort must have helped Quirrel somehow, or because Quirrel was a professor he must have known some secret backdoor or the like. But I find it interesting that Rowling doesn’t make any attempt whatsoever to cross this particular T. (I will have to reread that portion of the book to confirm this, but the movie certainly doesn’t make any attempt.) And this omission on her part (or the filmmaker’s part) has done nothing to dampen audience enjoyment or diminish sales.
What does this mean? It means a few things. It means Hitchcock was right, for one thing. Absolute narrative logic is beside the point. Entertainment value, suspense and narrative momentum trump narrative logic hands down. It means storytellers don’t have to dot every i and cross every t.
It also means I’ve spent way too much time sorting out the intricacies of the labyrinthine plot of my work in progress…
