As a young girl, I hated my name. I believed my name Monica too grown up and ladylike; not at all the name befitting my tomboy lifestyle.

My Irish twin brother, a mere 362 days older than I, couldn’t pronounce my name. As a toddler he could manage the middle “nic” sound okay; but all those blends to string together proved too difficult. (So I’ve been told. It’s not like I actually remember any of this, I was in diapers.)

Monica morphed into Nic, then expanded into Nikki. And so it came to pass, I would be Nikki – forever and ever,  Amen.

I loved the name Nikki, it fit my personality. A Nikki played with mud pies. Monica did not. Nikki caught crayfish, lighting bugs and rode her bike as it was The Black across the sand. Brave Nikki captured garter snakes. A girl named Monica, what would she do? Certainly not all the rough and tumble things I loved as a child. Maybe she played with dolls and sat primly with her hands folded in her lap. I had a T-shirt with the words “Buzz Off” imprinted on the front. Would a Monica wear such a hip, fun t-shirt?

Worse still: I suspected a Monica would like pink.

Everyone at home called me Nikki, in the neighborhood I went by Nikki. By fifth grade, desire triumphed over shyness. I began signing my preferred moniker on my school papers, my teachers began calling me Nikki, and much to my delight, I was Nikki everywhere, all the time.

Never will I go by the name of Monica, I proclaimed to my mother.

No problem. I like Nikki just fine. If she protested, I don’t recall it. If it bothered her, my hatred for the name she carefully chose for her firstborn daughter, she hid it well.

All through middle school I was Nikki. Freshman year, sophomore year of high school. I was still Nikki.

I don’t recall when the shift began. One day, sometime junior year, I simply wanted to be Monica. I no longer played in the mud (unless you count a sloppy football field with the marching band), I didn’t pretend the car was a horse and I didn’t mind wearing a skirt. I wore make-up. Tomboy Nikki discovered boys. What boy would take a Nikki to Prom?

Riding in the car with my mother about that time, we talked of my desire to be rid of my nickname. (I think we were on the way to the orthodontist. By sophomore year I had a mouthful of metal. Remember those tiny rubber bands that popped out of your mouth if not on tight?)

Do you like the name Monica now?

It’s okay, I guess.

You can change it if you want to. I’ll take you to the courthouse, we’ll pay the money if it means that much to you.

It’s not everyday your mother gives you an opportunity to chose your own name. The name I loved seemed more me: classic in style, but easily shortened to a more adult nickname. I signed my perfect new name on an imaginary paper in my mind.

Obviously, I’m still Monica today. We came to a truce, Monica and I. The bizarre fantasy Monica never made me wear pink; the inner Nikki maintained her crayfish catching abilities. I’m a true combination of both lady and free spirit girl feeling comfortable in both sneakers and heels.

While in the midst of my hatred for the name Monica, I never thought of it’s meaning, only how I despised a girl who never existed. It took me a long time to see the silliness of that thinking.

Today, as a wife, mother and Christian, I see the wisdom in the name my mother selected.

Not only is my name Monica, but I am a Monica.

In Latin, Monica means adviser. I advise my children daily, in their decisions, in their play and how to act like little ladies and gentlemen.

I advise Doc as needed.

I advise my family when they ask for my help. My church family, homeschooling community in which I am in leadership – Lord willing I am able to give advice and help when called upon to do so.

My name is Monica, not because it was given to me, but because it’s who I was created to be. And I like it.

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