Now there's a sequel

Although she is nothing if not her own person, my daughter and I have a fair amount in common. Some is nature: sorry about the nearsightedness, kiddo. Some is nurture: I'll take at least a little credit for her reading and cooking skill and her defense of the downtrodden. And some is a toss-up: eye-rolling--does that come naturally or is it learned?

But one thing she'll never be able to share is a young person's pain at not finding her correctly spelled name on any pens or stickers or any other personalized plastic crap at Six Flags or anywhere else. While I knew, theoretically, that there had to be other A-l-l-i-s-o-n-s out there, somewhere, I don't think I met another until college. When one's name is number three on the popularity chart? Not an issue. And neither is buying junk with one's name on it.

Which, as I recall, was kind of a big deal when I was 10. And which, perhaps, is one more reason that my friend's brother's ex-girlfriend could have thought maybe a little bit harder about what to name her baby boy this week, because this kid is never getting a ruler with his name on it. And sure, family tradition is important. And sure, there's all that Sylvester Stallone memorabilia just waiting to be scooped up. And if two generations did it, what's one more. But, but, but. . . ROCKY III?