What's in a name?

Rubber Rhubarb. . . rather silly, I suppose. However, that is precisely who I am. It could have been worse. Mom and Dad had seriously considered naming me Robert. Now, don't get me wrong. There is absolutely NOTHING terrible about the name Robert. In fact, I know quite a few amazing guys named Robert. My father is a Robert, my brother is a Robert. Heck, I even married one. Robert is a good, solid name. It is also decidedly masculine. No, I simply was not born to be a Robert. Happily, I was not born to be a Roberta either (which was briefly discussed and disgarded).

Did Mom and Dad agonize over what name their first born should go through life with? Did they have me try on names they way some women try on shoes. . . this one and that one until finally the right one fits? Maybe, but I actually suspect I might have earned my name, and pretty much right out of the oven. I probably looked a lot like most newborns. Red and wrinkly. No, I don't mean pink and wrinkly--ok, so I wasn't like most newborns, then. Because I was definitely RED and wrinkly. In fact, I am still red--and just the tiniest bit wrinkly. But I digress. . . So perhaps I didn't look all that much like most newborns except for the wrinkly part. And if what Mom says is true, I didn't sound much like a newborn either, because she swears that I came out talking, and haven't stopped since.

What does all that have to do with Rubber Rhubarb--or may name for that matter? I'm getting to that. See, here was this tiny little red talking thing that was supposed to be a Robert or a Roberta, but those names just didn't fit. I'm probably lying there, talking up a storm and Mom is thinking how nice it would be if it were spring. Spring? Why spring? Well, I don't know why she would be thinking about spring at the beginning of November, but let's just say she was because having someone visualize spring really helps out with my story here. Anyway, Mom is thinking about spring and Dad is wondering how in the world he is going to name a girl who is definitely not a Roberta after himself when all of a sudden it comes to them. . . Robin! She is red and noisy--and--Robin is a form of Robert.

Then before anyone had a chance to draw breath--much less try on another pair of shoes (for a refresher on what shoes have to do with Rubber Rhubarb, see the second sentence in the second paragraph), Robin Rubey was officially ready to embark on that great adventure I like to call life.

I am tired of blogging now. Why Rubber Rhubarb? I'll have to tell you later. . .