There was a huge crash from the living room. A second later, New Hampshire skated through the kitchen on his Heelys screaming “Watch me! Watch me!” as he slammed into our refrigerator. New Hampshire is my cousin’s 6-year-old. He won’t eat vegetables, is allergic to gluten, peanuts, latex, penicillin, cats, bees and shellfish. He is, against all odds, overweight. And surly. I can’t tell you how I look forward to their visits.

His parents, Hanna and Pat, had their hearts set on naming him after a state like Indiana Jones but most of the good state names had been taken by the time he was born. In New Hampshire’s pre-K class there are two Dakotas, two Nevadas, a Montana, a Georgia, a Florida, a Virginia, a Tennessee and an Arizona. Hanna thought New Mexico sounded too Latin, Massachusetts sounded too WASPY and Oregon too California. Pat confuses Iowa, Idaho and Ohio, so those were out. All in all, the kid’s lucky he’s not going through life named American Samoa or Dry Tortuga.

There was some worry what nickname his classmates and friends would give him. “New” or “Hamps.” Or something strange or rude. They need not have worried. The kid cannot possibly have any friends. His sister Chardonnay has let it slip that several teachers threatened to put him in “the hole. Whatever that is.” I’ll have to rent “The Great Escape” for her, someday.

“What was that crash?” Sue asked.