At the age of almost-one-month, Cleo still doesn’t have any papers – no birth certificate, no residency visa, no passport, nothing. “She’s awfully loud for someone who doesn’t exist”, as Sweetie likes to say.

We are passing the time, while we wait on various documents, in debating her name. Not the name itself, but how we should spell it. Sweetie likes Clio, like the Muse of History. I think we should cram in as many letters as possible – Chlyoo, maybe, or Khleeough. (Note: I am not serious.)

We decided on the name Cleo because it’s a nice simple one, easy to pronounce, unusual but not unknown – all the regular reasons. But I personally liked it because it fits in so well with the rest of my family, which, especially on my Mom’s side, is ripe with unusual names. For instance, one of my great-great grandfathers was named Zophar. Another one went by Orange. My mother’s name is Gaynelle, which is not even listed in most baby name books. Xina Marie is my first cousin. And so on. Really, a girl named after The Queen of the Nile looks pretty normal on the old family tree.

I am sure she will hate it when she becomes a teenager, and I look forward to shaking her birth certificate at her (if we have it by then, of course) and saying, “DO YOU KNOW WHAT WE HAD TO GO THROUGH TO GET YOU A NAME AT ALL, YOUNG LADY?”