What's in a Name?

'Is he OK, Mummy?' asks Tom.
'Yes, Daddy,' I say. I'm looking in the visor mirror at our toddler sitting in the back of the car, strapped to his child seat. His eyes are drooping, his thumb making its way to his mouth. 'He'll probably just drop off,' I say. If I'm honest Freddie is looking a little peaky, but I don't want to put Tom off his driving.
We are on the A421 towards Buckingham, heading for what must be our fifth roundabout. Cars are swishing past on all sides and Tom tenses as the stress of the crossing begins. I look at the sign proudly announcing where we are: Bottledump Roundabout. Who on earth chooses these names? When I was teaching English in France in my twenties, a student once exclaimed on learning the word 'cupboard' that our noble language was so literal, so unromantic. I was taken aback and offended, though on looking at this signpost in front of me, I have to admit that perhaps the Parisian pupil was right.
Now we're heading down the lane marked 'Milton Keynes, 6 miles', and Tom switches on the radio. The news presenter is interviewing a man from the army about something I can't quite focus on. Until the gentleman's identity is revealed: Sir Jock Stirrup. Now there's a name! I bet he was teased remorselessly at school about entering the equestrian world. I am picturing him donning Biggles spectacles and boarding a fighter plane in defiance at their rudeness.
There's a gulping noise from the back of the car.
'Is Freddie all right, Kirsty?' Tom asks.
I'm staring at the scrubby land to my left and becoming horrified at the warning notice that pedestrians might be crossing. What, here? Are they mad?
'Kirsty!' says Tom.
'Who? Oh!' I say. I often forget what my name is owing to my entire identity having been engulfed by motherhood. Kirsty rarely features in my life. It's almost always Mummy, Daddy and Freddie.
I twist round and look at the little man. He is awake and swallowing slowly and deliberately. 'Are you OK, Monkey?' I say. Here we go again. An inability to address people by their actual names. 'Mr Pooping?' I say. 'Are you feeling ill?'
Freddie shakes his head, but I'm not convinced.
Tom winds down the front window, and Sir Stirrup's voice gets muffled by the passing traffic.
Freddie's eyes are now bulging and the gulps are sounding more like hiccups.
'Are you going to throw up?' asks Tom. I'm not sure if Freddie understands this expression.
'Are you going to puke?' I say, 'Chunder? Bring up all your lunch?' I'm getting into the swing of this!
'No,' says Freddie, firmly. Then he proceeds to vomit quantities of red, lumpy liquid all over himself and the car seat.
'Mummy,' he says.
'Yes, Tiger,' I say.
'It's sick, Mummy,' Freddie says.
'Yes, darling, you're right,' I say. 'It's called sick.'