A name is a curious thing. You could know someone named Geoffrey in third grade who beat you up and stole your lunch money, and forever after you’d think of him whenever you heard that name, and never consider naming any of your children after a bully. The word Geoffrey would be forever ruined for you, even though some would consider it a beautiful name.

Case in point: I once knew a Ramona—this was years ago—who scarred that name for me so badly that even seeing Beverly Cleary books would make me shudder a little. I’d give the odd Ramona that I saw a wide berth just to be safe.

That system worked well enough until I met my second Ramona six months ago.