Ellie Slott Fisher

There was a time it seemed as though everyone in my life was named some derivative of Susan. My sister, my cousin, my sister-in-law, my agent, and enough girlfriends that each required a further identifying factor such as a surname or a link to their husband, like my friends SusieandArnie or SusanandOri.

In additional to their first names, these women share something else in common: they are all born within 10 years of each other. As I have gotten older, many of my friends have gotten younger, and nary a Susan in the mix. Instead, the name that fills my contact list so often I’ve given up assigning them speed dial numbers, is Lisa

For the sake of conversation, there’s Norwegian Lisa, Little Lisa, CareLisa, LisaOH, K-ELisa, YogaLisa, TallLisa, and so on. When I meet some woman in her forties if I forget her name (which I usually do) I feel pretty confident it’s Lisa.

So why am I seemingly so fixated on these names? I’m fascinated by how they define us. They can give away our approximate age; they can, if not pinpoint our cultural identities, at least eliminate some, and they can even say something about our parents who apparently were kind of hip when they chose a name that was mainstream popular.

Take my mom, for instance. She named me Ellen – a name neither she nor I have ever really used – just so she could in all good conscience nickname me Ellie. Growing up, Ellen was fairly popular with my age group. Don’t get me started on all my old friends named Ellen (love you Brooks) but today Ellen is a rarity. Ellie, however, is used so often that I frequently think I’m being scolded in the mall by a woman who, as it turns out, is trying to control her four-year-old. Who knew my mom was ahead of the curve.

The real reason I think so much about the commonality in our names is because doing so provides a sense of comfort. It feels familiar, recognizable, not very mysterious.

In fact, if I meet a Susan or a Lisa, I kind of feel as though I already know her.

A friend and I were trying on jewelry in an eclectic store that just so happens to carry my books. An adorable young clerk was helping us and we all got to talking. When he learned that I was the author of It’s Either Her or Me, he excitedly told me that when he straightens up, he often flips through my book. Why? “Because,” he told me, “my mother HATES my girlfriend.”

Immediately, I went into journalist mode. How old are you? (19) Do you have siblings? (Two). Where do you fit in the birth order? (Youngest). Is your mom okay with your older siblings’ significant others? (Yes).

Okay, so benefit of the doubt here that his girlfriend, who I didn’t meet, is a sweetheart, then what do I think is happening here? Why are moms perfectly fine with some of their children’s wives/husbands, but dislike another’s?

All things being equal, a mom (remember, I’m one, too) can have a difficult time sharing her child who is:

1. The last born.

2. The first born.

3. The one she depends on (for vetting, for companionship, for peace of mind).

4. Or, the one for whom she has superhuman expectations (think Bill Gates, Barack Obama, Alex Rodriguez – hey, they had moms who dreamed, too). And in that case, no one will be good enough.

It’s confusing for the son who can’t figure out why Mom likes his sister’s boyfriend, but not his girlfriend. And that’s the case with this nice kid I met. I’ve never met his girlfriend. I’ve never met his mother. They could both be fantastic people. In fact, they probably are. But my advice to the mom would be: Pick your battles. He’s 19. If you show your dislike for this girl now, and he ends up with someone else later on who is truly terrible, you’ve lost a lot of credibility. And maybe more.

They’re kids. They’re getting ready to leave for college. Anything can happen. So be supportive. In the end, your relationship with your son will not only be more rewarding, but it will blossom.