“How about Wrigley?”
We’re in route to pick up the rescue puppy but still can’t agree on a name. I lobby hard for my favorite. It’s not in my nature to give up.
The boys aren’t sold.
“Are you sure? It’s a great name…”
I’m really pushing. My oldest’s love of baseball verges on obsessive and being a Chicago girl growing up watching the Cubs, Wrigley feels right to me.
Chaz laughs from the driver’s seat. “You’re not going to win this one.”
I concede. “OK, OK. What else?”
“Snowflake!” A. holds firm to his first choice. I don’t disagree that it’s a good name only that the color of the puppy’s fur is more peed on snow that freshly fallen.
“There are NO angels in our house,” says Chaz.
In the past fourteen days, the boys have changed the name from Lucky to Tikki to Cinnamon Toast Crunch to Wrigley to Angel to Snowflake.
“How about Lucky?” I ask. It’s where we started two weeks ago.
Looking at my life, it’s how I feel. Great kids. Happy marriage. Healthy family. Loyal friends. I stand corrected. Lucky feels right.
“Lucky it is.” We all agree.