Naming your kid is almost like playing God. You have this immense power over another human being. You’re in charge of what this person will be called for the rest of his/her life. And you have literally thousands of choices of hundreds of baby-naming books. It’s a lot of pressure. I wouldn’t be surprised if people divorced thanks to “name” fights. My parents didn’t divorce when they named me, but they didn’t succeed in creating a wonderful name for me that people will always remember.

To be honest, I hate my name. I mean, I really hate my name. I’ve never even met someone with my name. I’ve thought about changing it, but I’m gutless. I might be lucky if 1% of people I encounter either in person or on the phone or even email get it right. Despite my name being Lorne, I’ve been called Lauren, Loren, Lorene, Lorney, Lance, Laraine, Lor, Warren, and so many others incorrect and ridiculous variations. I’ve even been called Jeff. Why? Well, it’s interesting. My HS math teacher had a speech impediment; she spoke like Elmer Fudd. So I figured she called me Jeff because she’d have to pronounce my name “Wawen.” Turns out she called me Jeff because she got me confused with this kid who sat in the front of the class. Ok, that makes some sense. Except Jeff was black. If you check out my profile pic, you can clearly see I’m not. What the hell?

Found this pub in Scotland. I showed them my driver’s license and asked if I could get anything for free. They looked at me like I was nuts.

Now consider the school playground. What does my name rhyme with? Porn. Corn. Horn. So I was porny, corny, horny. My name just attracted bullies and for a sensitive kid like me, that was a brutal time and just added to the depression that eventually (well, not so eventually since it started when I approximately 9 years old) infiltrated my brain and consumed my life. So why not use my middle name? Well, I hate my middle name too. Ira. Ugh. And then my initials. L.I.J. Also known as Long Island Jewish Hospital. I heard that one a lot as a kid. Learned it the hard way when I put my initials on my bowling ball.

It sucked as a kid. It sucks as an adult. Even people who have known me for years have trouble with my name, sometimes calling me Lauren. It irks me, but I live with it. And then there’s the phone. I’ve got a high voice so people automatically think I’m female. Add in the name and I’m definitely female to people on the other end of the line. It’s rare when I get called “Mr.” It bothers me each time, a burning feeling in my chest and stomach, but whatever. I’m tired of correcting people. I’m tired of saying, “You know, like Lorne Greene. Like Lorne Michaels. The E is silent. It rhymes with born.” I’ve despised my name for so long that when the television adaptation of Fargo premiered and I discovered Billy Bob Thornton’s character, a supremely confident, malevolent killer with a dark sense of humor, is named Lorne Malvo, I got so excited that I tweeted my thanks for giving my name some menace to show runner, Noah Hawley. He didn’t write back, but still…so cool! There’s also a city in Australia named Lorne. Australia is where I’d most like to live (yes, I’ve been there), and maybe that’s a sign that a big move is in our future. Probably not, though, so for now at least I have Fargo.

FARGO – Pictured: Billy Bob Thornton as Lorne Malvo. CR: Chris Large/FX

Which brings me to what happened when Elaine and I named our daughter. I absolutely considered the schoolyard aspect, the possible taunting rhymes. I didn’t want my child to deal with that, though I know kids will always come up with something. Kids are cruel. At best I wanted to lessen the possibilities.

I was named after my maternal grandfather using the Jewish tradition of using the first letter of a deceased relative. Since my grandfather’s name was Leon, my parents were stuck with L. They hated all L names – Lee, Larry, Lewis – until my mom, who was a teacher at the time, found a kid named Lorne in her class. So I’m named after some random kid in my mom’s former class.

Elaine wanted to name our kid after a superhero or comic book character. She was set on Bruce Wayne for a boy. I nixed it. Bruce Wayne? No. That’s too much. She even said she’d settle for Bruce W. with the W secretly being Wayne. I couldn’t do it. Plus I hate the name Bruce (apologies to all the Bruces out there). We eventually agreed on Logan after Wolverine. Then we learned we were having a girl. We thought about keeping Logan, but decided against it. Didn’t feel right. There aren’t many female superheroes and neither of us are into comics. There’s Wonder Woman, but neither of us liked the name “Diana.” What to do? Originally we decided on Kaylee after the character on Firefly, but Elaine thought her parents (both Ecuadorian immigrants who speak very little English) would have trouble with it. Then I thought about G.I. Joe and the Baroness, a strong female character even if she was a part of Cobra. Sienna Miller played her in G.I. Joe: The Rise of Cobra. Sienna. Sienna. It sounded right. Sure it wasn’t a direct comic book character, but it was actress playing a strong female. Plus there’s Siena, Italy, a beautiful little town. We liked it. Nay, we loved it! Sienna it was!

Sienna Miller as The Baroness in “G.I. Joe: The Rise of Cobra”

My parents asked us if we’d consider a middle name honoring my late grandfather George meaning something starting with G. We said we’d think about and then went about coming up with ludicrous G names: Gizmo, Gonzo, Grape Ape. Suddenly I said, “Giselle,” and we looked at each other. Sienna Giselle. Perfection. Beautiful. I was so thrilled we’d be able to honor my grandfather that I worked on and printed out a special certificate for my grandmother. Her reaction? Anger. Sadness. Elaine’s not Jewish, you see, so it doesn’t count. Plus it was a middle name, not a first name. It was an insult. I was stunned and hurt. I never wanted to speak to my grandmother again. I mean, this was the only great-grandchild she had paying homage to her late husband. But she came around. Now she cherishes the name almost as much as she cherishes her great-granddaughter.

Will Sienna like her name? I sure hope so. I pray she doesn’t suffer too much because of it. I know she’ll get annoyed saying, “It’s 2 Ns, not 1,” but I haven’t come up with a cruel playground rhyme. I hope she sees the beauty in the name, how Sienna Giselle flows off the tongue. I hope she’s proud to say her name and doesn’t cringe when she hears it like I do with mine.

But the problem with playing God is that you never know about unintended consequences, and naming your child is one of those perilous moments that could leave terrible emotional marks or, on the flip side, could empower him or her.

What will it be with Sienna? Only time will tell.

Last week I did the unthinkable – I washed Sienna’s security scarf. I have to admit it was tough and I did everything possible for Sienna not to see that this colorful piece of fabric she appropriated from my wife go into and out of the laundry basket and washing machine, but toddlers either have a sixth sense of better eyesight than any creature on the planet because they notice the slightest feint of hand. Seriously, I don’t know why people bother to hire magicians for children’s birthday parties because from my admittedly limited experience, toddlers tend to catch every little trick you try to pull on them.

Examples:

I know I was in the other room, but Daddy, I saw you put medicine in my orange juice. I ain’t drinking it! I’m not even going to try it! In fact, I’m just gonna say, “No!” repeatedly!

You think I wouldn’t notice that Little Green Monkey was missing from the enormous pile of stuffed animals on my bed even though I haven’t played with him in a month? Think again! “Green monkey?? Little green monkey??”

I love doing laundry with you, Daddy, but did you really think I wouldn’t notice my security scarf was in the wash even though you took it without me looking and buried it like a prisoner trying to escape the big house? “Scarf? Scarf?? SCARF???”

Who knows how dirty the scarf was when I decided it was time for a wash? She drags it around the house and outside on the sidewalk and through the grass and sand and dirt at the park. People see her in her stroller and call her a “fashionista,” but little do they know Sienna and her scarf are nearly inseparable. She sleeps with it every night (the one time she went to sleep without it, she woke up in the middle of the night crying out for it).

“Fashionista” Sienna and her security scarf

And so Sienna begged for her scarf for 32 solid minutes while the machine rattled and shook, sucking out all the pollen and cat hair, the dirt and grime, the saliva and snot, the tears and food stains. And after those agonizing 32 minutes ended and I unloaded the washer, I was forced to extend Sienna’s torment because the scarf’s too delicate to go in the dryer so I had to lay it out in plain sight while it air-dried.

“Sienna,” I said. “Scarf needs to dry. I’m sorry but you can’t have it yet. As soon as it’s dry I promise I’ll run over and drape you in it.”

But the little girl’s answered me with tears and wails for “SCARF!!!”

And so I did the best thing I could: I spread it over her high chair thus leaving it low enough for her to touch, but high enough for it to dry . It took a ton of effort and continuous explaining to prevent Sienna from ripping that wet scarf from the chair, but she finally gave in and stood there, sucking her thumb and holding her security scarf with a sort of desperation and contentment.

What is it about this scarf that calms my daughter so? Why does she find such solace in it? Why does one thing call out to a toddler more than another be it a doll, a stuffed animal, a scarf?

I’m no stranger to security objects. When I was a kid I remember loving a gray stuffed dog. That poor thing had so many surgeries it looked like Frankenweenie. I think I also had a blanket. Actually, I’m pretty sure my parents one day stole it from my bed when they decided I was too old for it hoping I wouldn’t go ballistic. I don’t think I did. I don’t recall why I loved either the dog or the blanket.

Even today I don’t feel comfortable unless I’m wearing my Yankee cap (and it has nothing do with the Yankees), though this one I understand and even blogged about its import.

I don’t have any problems with Sienna loving this scarf, but I dread the next time I must take away such a precious thing to wash it because as a parent it hurts me to see my daughter so anguished. I just find it fascinating that she chose this scarf as the object that makes her feel safe and wish I knew why, a wish that will most likely go unfulfilled.

So let’s hear from you. What are your children’s security objects? Do your kids go nuts when they have to be washed? How many operations have you had to perform on a beloved stuffed animal or a delicate scarf?