When I was born my parents had already discussed names. Brandon if I was a boy, not the coolest but I could deal, and Trista Jo if I were a girl. Trista? Sounds like something you’d name a show pony. I'm still thankful that someone who wasn't under the influence of morphine and adrenaline stepped in and suggested Rebecca. Again not the coolest but I’m making do.
When it came to naming Rinn, that was easy. It’s my maiden name. My parents had girls and my dad was the only boy so there would be no one else to carry on the Rinn name. Not that I have solved that problem forever, but I prolonged it’s end for a little while at least. And no, his name is not Rinn Rinn. I’ve pursued a lot of hair brained ideas in my life, like making a fake I.D. so that I could adopt a puppy from the humane society, but I’m not daft enough to name my son Rinn Rinn. He has his father’s last name.
A little more brainstorming and discussion went into naming this babe. Fine, the cold truth is that Travis made a suggestion which I found less than desirable and I had to gently remind him that he wasn’t going to be the one to forcefully remove this 6-8 pound human from a tiny hole in his body. Yes, I’m that lady. Unfortunately Travis isn’t the guy to fall for such emotional manipulation so it wasn’t until he learned that someone he knew had a child with the same name he’d been yearning for that he was open to alternatives. Of course I only had one name on my wish list…
Travis and I first met backstage on contract in Branson, MO. I’m sure I’ve explained this all before. There were fleas involved, remember? Anyway, after I caught his interest by being infested with parasites (and people think I’m the weird one) we carried on with your average co-worker relationship until he started pestering me about eating food together. I refused his offer. Several times actually. I wasn’t necessarily interested in a guy who used more hairspray than me. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t take this opportunity to torture him by passive aggressively insulting him. Looking back I probably resembled a 5th grade boy showing a girl he likes her by pulling on her ponytail at recess. So maybe I was actually confused about being interested in a guy who uses more hairspray than me.
One afternoon, as the show was getting ready to start, he was loitering backstage carrying around a guitar. I shouldn’t say ‘one afternoon’ because he was regularly loitering backstage. I have a feeling he was the kid in school constantly being told to stay in, or return to his seat. I walked past him and cooly asked “do you even know how to play that thing?” If I remember correctly, he responded with a series of scoffs. Like I had just asked if his sideburns were real or something. Also I already knew his sideburns were real because I yanked on one without warning earlier that week. See, 5th grade boy. Anyway.
After he had finally collected himself, “What do you want to hear? Give me something.”
“Hootie & The Blowfish”, which is my response most everything to do with music.
Don’t judge. Everyone has that guilty pleasure, that artist or song from their youth that you thoroughly enjoy even though you know they’re not always held in high regard. I know some of you out there not-so-secretly like Hanson and Lou Bega’s Mambo No. 5. Wait, that’s still me.
Without hesitation Travis started to play “Let Her Cry” and I had to try really, really hard not to visibly swoon. I might’ve actually ran away to keep from grinning like an idiot. My attempt at getting a rise out of him backfired, hard. You could say I was willing to look past the hairspray issue. I wouldn’t actually give in until he dangled a camper in front of my face but that ended up being a bust so I’m totally content staying in this marriage as long as he croons Darius Rucker lyrics to me on demand and continues to hang his washcloths on the rod in the shower instead of leaving them in a wet heap on the tub floor. It really is the little things.
So without further ado, Ladies and Gentlemen, I’d like to informally (since he isn’t actually here yet) introduce…
Rucker, well I think that’s obvious.
And Keith is after Travis’ father and brother, did you think I was joking when I said we were naming our child after them? They toiled away in the hot Carolina sun all day and into the evening digging holes and installing fence posts, it’s really the least we could do.
Look, I did the impossible and convinced my husband to name our child after not one, but THREE different men that aren't him. One of which we're not even related to. I should host some kind of seminar.
Anyway, now you'll have to excuse me because I need to order a matching t-shirt and onesie with "I NAMED MY BABY AFTER YOU!" for when I take Rucker to the Darius Rucker concert next summer and I hold him up over my head like Rafiki did Simba in The Lion King. Why use poster board when you can use your human child?