When my daughter was born, I was surprised, no let’s call it shocked. You see, I’d had the same difficult pregnancy, had carried the same way and was positive that it was going to be another boy. I recall a nurse asking me what name I had chosen, and I recall blurting out Kevin Matthew. She reassured me that I had just given birth to a girl and that I needed to think of another name.

So I did. I called my daughter Kelly Melinda, at least for the first twenty-four hours. But then I caved. Family all chided me and said I couldn’t have a Kyle, Kelly and Kelsey. They all sounded too alike. Kyle was my son and Kelsey was my dog.

After a somewhat tense discussion, my ex and I decided on Kimberly instead of Kelly. Mara, her middle name, was my ex’s idea. He didn’t like Melinda. So now I had a Kimmy instead of a Kelly.

And it was all good until she announced that she wanted to be called Kim, not Kimmy. Okay, she’s in her forties now and she made this decision when she was only six or seven, but I still call her Kimmy. And when Kyle and I talk about her, it’s always Kimmy.

The other day I was doing a video call with my granddaughter Madeline. She pouted annoyedly and said to her mom, “Did you hear what Grandma just called you?” Out came the guns; once again my daughter criticizing me for calling her Kimmy. Apparently I’m the worst mom in the world because I still call her Kimmy.

I don’t care. Judge me all you want. It was hard enough giving up Kelly. But don’t ask me to give up another name. I will always call her Kimmy.