Ten years ago this week I was getting to know my extraordinarily beautiful second son, Boy Two.
Even though I knew I shouldn’t, I sat up through the night, held my warm bundle and watched foxes scurry through the bushes by the hospital car park.
He fitted the name we had finally agreed on. As if he knew.
And in the moonlight the names he might have had – the also-rans – fled and into the shadows just like the foxes.
It set me to thinking about how different things could have been if we’d gone with the second choice of moniker. In this house there would have been Gwyn or Bryn, Rafferty and Seamus.
A close call, I’d say.
Although the bigger Boys wanted their little brother to be Napoleon or Elvis. Either of which would have suited him better than they ought.
Which were your names that got away?