It was one fateful night at a Chinese restaurant. I was six months pregnant, and my husband, to my utter amazement, pulled out a piece of paper with a list of boys names on it.
We’d spent the previous few months debating girls’ names, which had almost broken us, because my husband had had a lot of previous partners… and I’d forced him to tell me each one, lest he reveal to me at our daughter Susan’s 18th birthday party that he used to bone a Susan.
Finally, we’d decided on beautiful Bonnie. And then my husband (and his big mouth) made the mistake of telling his seven-year-old son (my step son), who promptly responded, “That’s so stupid! That’s a dog’s name!”
Luckily, we soon discovered we were having a boy. I’d had trouble narrowing down boys names, because I liked so many. I wanted something strong and traditional – but not common. Easy to spell. And definitely not biblical. He’d be given an Indian middle name, but his first name had to tick those boxes.
So, when my husband whipped out the list from his suit pocket, I glanced at it – and I knew immediately that the first name was it.
Winston: named after the greatest, most iconic British Prime Minister, Winston Churchill. Strong, traditional, not too common in Australia, easy to spell, and not biblical. Perfect.
(As a side note, if you’re wondering if my kid is called Winston Winston – he’s not.)
I loved it, and to this day, I’ve never abbreviated it. Lots of other people call him Winnie, or Win. I tried using Winnie-the-Pooh when he was a baby, but I loathed it.
Don’t get me wrong – I love that other people have nicknames for him. His brother – the one who hated Bonnie – calls him Winnie, and it’s so cute.
But not me. Not his mum. I love the bold, grand name so much, the kid will always, always be Winston to me.
And, as I discovered last night, I’m not the only one who loves the name.