An acquaintance from church asked if we could babysit her youngest daughter in a pinch.

“Of course,” we say. She’s a spunky, strawberry-blond not-quite-three-year-old.

Said acquaintance drops off said child complete with baby-care paraphernalia. Good-bye acquaintance. Hello strawberry-blond toddler.

The big girls and Lil are going to take her downstairs to play dollhouse.  Then big girl number one asks, “What’s her name?”

Oh no.

It occurs to me. I have no idea. None. Can’t come up with a guess. I know I heard it when she was born. But since? Nope. I don’t have that kind of memory.

So, we ask the nameless child. She’s articulate. We know she wants to play. Her answer does not match the question. Again. And again. She’s cute. But nameless. So for little while, we call her a generic Sweetie. Which isn’t very effective. She doesn’t respond to “Sweetie, don’t throw the blocks.” It would be helpful to actually know her name.

Brainstorm. I remember my dear friend is her godmother. I laugh, because I realize it took this particular friend years to remember my name. This little child is only three. I’m not sure that’s been enough time for it to stick. Even though she’s godmother. (But I am confident she is doing her godmotherly duty and praying daily with all of her wonderful heart for the strawberry-blond nameless child.)

I make the call. No one is home. Call her cell. She answered AND remembered. And we are victorious.

And she is Victoria.