Three days old, and our baby boy was without a name. "How's Michael Anthony Dominic Joseph Vincent Vito this morning?" became my room attendant's way to greet us. "Girl, you're goin' home tomorrow," she told me on day two, "and baby boy still ain't got no name." The woman with the social security paperwork left each day, shaking her head. "Does my grandson have a name YET?" my mother asked every time we spoke. Even the card labeled "Baby Boy Pinciaro" on his bassinet seemed to mock my indecisiveness. What kind of mother can't name her child? When big sister Gianna came to visit and said "Hi baby Tony" a decision was made. We announced that his name was Anthony Vito as family, friends, and hospital staff breathed a collective sigh of relief.
Fast forward several years and it was time for Tony to start preschool. That Sunday, he was moved up to the three year old room for Sunday School as well. A few days later he came to me and said "Mama, who's Anthony? I have his name tag and his folder. My teachers at school and at church keep calling me that. I keep tellin' them I don't know he." And the question now became what kind of mother doesn't tell her child the name she finally decided upon?
It took a while, but Tony was finally convinced that he and Anthony were one and the same. The damage, however, was done. Whenever he meets someone new he nods and says, "Okay John. But what's your REAL name? You know. The one your Mama forgot to tell you about."
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