The children of strangers usually annoy me more often than make me laugh, but today twice proved an exception. The first occurred as I stood patiently in line, awaiting my turn, un niño worked his way from the back of the line, up to the front, past me, past the gentlemen in front of me, and then stood just behind the person finishing up their transaction at the counter. At first I assumed he belonged to that person, but when the customer left and the kid put his book up on the counter, over which he could not see, and then handed the cashier money, the guy in front of me turned around and we both chuckled. If an adult had broken in line that way, I suppose I would have been a bit upset, but I was mollified by the obvious fact that he likes to read, and that's a good thing.

Only a few minutes later, another kid made me smile. When the weather began getting nice a couple of days ago, I took the top and doors off of the Jeep. As I sat waiting for a traffic light to turn green, a white sedan pulled up beside me. A kid's voice said, Mommy look! He has no doors. I glanced over at him as he sat strapped into his carseat, pointing out his half-opened window at me. I smiled and then returned my attention to the road.

If only kids didn't poop and vomit and require constant attention, maybe they wouldn't be so bad. Or if gestation took 16 years...

How important is your name? Pretty darn important.

When people think of your name, they think of you. When they think of you, they think of your name. Try changing your name and you'll discover that your friends and family will, if not outright oppose the idea, find it very unreasonable of you to ask them to think of you as someone different. Unfortunately, despite the importance of those one or two words which identify you, you have no say in the matter. Your parents pick it out for you before you're even born. It has nothing to do with your personality or appearance, but only the whim of a man and woman who do not yet know you.

Strangley enough, my family doesn't even call me what they chose to name me. Instead, they have a nickname for me, a derivative of my middle name. I've been known by it since birth; never was my first or middle names used except on official forms.

When I grew up and decided that I preferred my legal name to my nickname, I started introducing myself as Karsten. My mother actually laughed the first time she heard it on my voicemail message. After the initial humor of it, there was near-universal refusal to call me anything but what they (the family) chose for me. One of my uncles has honored my request, and I thank him for it.

Admittedly, my first name, the one I have chosen to use, is not common here in America. People always hear it wrong; spell it wrong; say it wrong. I'm always Carson or Kirsten or Carlson. With people to whom I'll probably never speak again, I usually don't bother correcting them. Sometimes I even find their attempts to say my name humorous. For instance, a couple of days ago I went by Carl's Jr. for lunch. Instead of just giving you a number, which I prefer, given the circumstances, they want your name so they can call you out when your order is ready. On weekdays, the cashier at Carl's Jr is this cute kid who knows my name and my usual order. I only go there so often because he's cute. This particular day, however, a different guy was working. He asked for my name, and I told him. He looked confused but typed into the computer what he heard. I got the receipt and saw that he'd definitely come up with a new one-- nothing like I'd ever seen before.

Harsto. I chuckled.