There are two stories to my name.  The mom story and the dad story, and I’m not sure if either are actually true.

The mom story goes a bit like this: Once, a long, long time ago (1982 to be exact) a very pregnant woman was enjoying a quiet walk through a field.  (No joke, my mom really was walking through a field.  She used to work at a living history museum as the blacksmith’s wife, so she actually did things like walking through fields and baking pies and spinning wool.)  She walked through the field, this pregnant woman, and thought about names for her unborn baby.  Edmund James, Tiffany Rose, Jacob Emerson, Emma Rose…  Emma Rose… Emma Rose.  And LO AND BEHOLD, the mother knew the baby would be a girl and she would be called Emma Rose.

Okay, so maybe when my mom tells it I don’t sound like the savior incarnate but that’s what happens when you hock out your newborn to play Jesus in the Christmas nativity scene.

The dad story goes like this: There was once this guy who was in love with Emmy Lou Harris.  So in love in fact that given the chance, he would gladly trade in his very pregnant wife for a little whoo-hoo with Emmy.  Not that the father is a bad guy, he’s a great guy in fact, maybe the best guy ever but truth be told, he’s still a guy.  And at times his ‘little guy’ still rules over everything else.  And even though his wife was generally considered a ‘real catch’, he still might risk all that for a shot at Emmy Lou, if given the chance.  (Twenty years later, he actually finds himself in Emmy Lou’s dressing room.  Sure, she’s beautiful.  And sure, maybe if he tried hard enough he might just get that chance. But when it comes down to it, he’s older and tired and he’d just rather go home and get into bed with his wife.)  In any case, he wants to name the baby after Emmy Lou but the wife, understandably, isn’t too keen on the idea so they compromise.

So Emma Rose the “and so it shall be” baby and Emma Rose the chick-I’d leave-your-mother-for baby.  Either way, is it any wonder I’m always uncomfortable when people call me by name?

by e. miller
Oakland, CA