The one question you should never ask a pregnant woman

You will be so proud of me.

I know exactly the question not to ask.

Three of my friends are pregnant right now.

This is good news, in that new life is on the way. That’s always about hope and what is possible.

It’s also good news in that I know each friend is pregnant because she told me.

Sounds so simple, yet aren’t you relieved I didn’t repeat the mistake I shared with you some months ago? How I asked a stranger I was sitting next to on an airplane when she was expecting, only to be told, oh, yes, that’s right — that in, fact she was not pregnant, making for one very awkward five-hour flight to California.

So, lesson learned on not asking a woman if she’s pregnant.

So many of you appeared to get a kick out of that story where I made a total fool of myself, let me return the favor.

Here’s the question you should never ask a woman once you know for sure she is pregnant — “What do you plan to name your baby?”

We are living in the era of major pregnancy overshare!

Expectant parents can share the baby’s gender, how many eyelashes will appear on baby’s left eye, and soon, no doubt where little Junior will be going to college and having for breakfast on his 23rd birthday. That’s all before the actual birth.

The name?

Dear Reader, we need a policy of “Don’t Ask; Don’t Tell.”

It’s pretty simple. We friends and family don’t ask. And expectant parents — you don’t tell.

To tell is simply to create open season for a naming firing squad.

Doesn’t matter if it’s something simple as Abbie or rare as Shlomo, someone is not going to be happy and they will tell you about it.

Frankly, it’s none of their business.

Well-meaning folks will think they are saving you from yourself.

“You think your kid will want to be called that?” they will warn.

Turns out they just might.

Let’s ask, well, me.

I am that baby saddled with the unusual name all grown up.

Sure, there have been some challenges.

There was no “Daryn” mini license plate for me to hang off my Schwinn bicycle when I was a kid.

I withstood merciless teasing thanks to “Bewitched,” the TV show where Darren Stevens’ mother-in-law, Endora, called him things like “Durwood, Darwick or Darwin.”

I’ve have spent significant time of my life explaining to folks that I’m not “Mr. Kagan” And, I usually just say, “Leroy” when I need to give my name for a wait list at a restaurant.

And yet.

I’ve always liked my name. I liked not being one of six Jennifers in my third-grade class. I don’t mind spelling it. I don’t mind explaining to confused credit card information people that yes, “I’m Daryn — the only woman named ‘Daryn’ you will probably talk to all day.”

So off I go to buy baby presents. Engraving or embroidering the gifts with baby’s name? Won’t be happening. I don’t know the name. I don’t want to know the name.

That is, until the little bundle of joy is here. “This is Shlomo!” you new parents can announce to the world once the ink is dry on the birth certificate.

We friends and family will have no choice to agree, “What a perfect name, he looks just like a Shlomo!”

What do we really think of the name you picked for your baby? New parents — how about you don’t ask and we won’t tell.

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