"What's His Name Daddy?"

I am what native North Carolinians call a “transplant.” I was born and raised outside of North Carolina and then moved here. Native North Carolinians are not nasty about it or anything – in fact, they are some of the most gracious and welcoming people you will ever meet. All I’m saying is that it doesn’t matter how frequently I use the word “y’all” or the fact that I’ve lived here for more than half of my life, to North Carolina natives I will always retain an aura of “otherness.”

I have never given a second thought to my decision to move to North Carolina, or to my decision to marry a native North Carolinian and to start and raise a family here.

That is, until our two year old decided to name a baby hummingbird.

It started innocently enough. Over breakfast one morning, my daughter was sitting in her high chair watching the birds through the window of our breakfast nook. At the time, we had a feeder that attracted a wide range of bird species. After an ill-fated attempt at using bargain bird seed, we learned our lesson and only used premium blends. If bird seed was people food then it was all fois gras and truffles in the Ergenzinger backyard. Our place was in every discerning bird’s “Zagat’s Guide to North Raleigh.”

We had recently expanded our menu by including a hummingbird feeder, and we started to notice some regulars. One regular was much smaller than the rest, and I was particularly excited to see him so that I could engage my daughter with an: “Ooh! Look Darlin’! There’s a baby one!”

One morning when the baby hummingbird made its appearance, I did my regular schtick. Then my daughter asked me, “What’s his name Daddy?”

Seeing an opportunity to foster creativity, I said, “I don’t know honey. What do you want to name him?”

“Bubba.”

Now, I like to think that I'm a pretty open minded guy. I’m sure there are some very nice people named Bubba, but I admit to having a knee jerk reaction to the name. I also couldn’t help thinking – would the name Bubba be second nature to our little girl if we lived anywhere but the South? I am going to go out on a limb here and say, probably not.

My wife’s uncle, who is a native of North Carolina, assured me that I didn’t have anything to worry about until my daughter started bringing home boyfriends named Bubba. Great. I can sleep now but the dreams still come.

To be fair to my daughter, I need to make sure that I don’t paint her as a burgeoning “good ol’ girl.” She was and is quite the little sophisticate. She has always loved a wide variety of music and has had diverse tastes from a very young age. At the age of two she was equally likely in a restaurant to ask, by name, for chicken fingers or gorgonzola cheese. She was also very worldly for her age; after watching a segment on Sesame Street™ about a family in South America, she woke up every morning for a week asking, “Daddy, we go to Argentina today?”

Given all that, the Bubba thing was all the more jarring. So, when I gave my daughter the gift of a stuffed-animal baby seal and she asked what his name was, I wondered if I should put myself through the pain again. I breathed deep and said, “I don’t know honey. What do you want to name him?”

“Ray Charles.”

Better. Much better.

For more observations and advice, check out other Hubs by this author such as, "My Children are Devious Little Con Artists," and "How to Protect Your Home From a Peacock Invasion."