Although my mother constantly reminds me that she, and many in her generation, were practically done being fruitful and multiplying by the time she was my age, I must say that at 27 years of age I have never heard the subtle tick of my own biological clock.

Until now.

Well, not exactly.

This week I got a phone call from my mom informing me that my pregnant sister-in-law is having a girl. I hear in China, where families are urged to procreate no more than once to keep the population down, people celebrate when they find that their newborn child is a masculine one.

Well, in my familia, it's the opposite. Despite the high cost of weddings, beauty products, and ballet classes these days, my familia rejoices like kids on Christmas morning when it's a girl. My mother so far has only grandsons and was convinced -- via visits to the psychic -- that I was the one that would have the first and only girl. On a scale of 1 to 10, the pressure for my childbearing has been so heavy that it broke the scale. There are little coiled wires everywhere.

Even I was convinced that when Donkey Kong -- my husband who wishes to remain anonymous despite sharing the same mailing address -- and I finally have a child that it would be fit for the color pink. She would be the first and only (spoiled) granddaughter.

But nooooooo. My sister-in-law is approaching five months pregnant. Of course if I were a hamster with a gestation period of 16 days, I could beat her to the delivery room. I missed my chance!

My mom's reaction? Well, hurry up and have children. (BOING! There goes another coil!)

After my mom called, my brother called to tell me the news, again. The familia phone tree always gets its wires tangled.

After a wave of congrats, my first question came out like Bob Woodward on deadline: Any names??????

Nope.

This caused me to frantically phone my husband to tell him that although I am not ready for children … and not to worry … we can still wait a few years … but we need to pick our baby names NOW … put them on layaway … so THEY don't steal them.

This is the same man who received other overly excited urgent phone calls from me this week: On one day I drove into a fence. And on another day he was forced to leave work to venture home -- a short trip on the San Diego trolley plus a 10-minute drive -- to turn the stove off, which was discovered not to have been left on, as I insisted.

And now: baby names on deadline.

Naturally, like most husbands of today, Donkey Kong thinks his wife has lost it altogether.

And we hadn't even gotten to my list of suggestions at that point: names I made up, titles of songs sung by has-been, overly hairy-chested artists, characters in books, classic movie stars, etc. Even I'll admit, some of them aren't really suiting.

Lola's out for sure now that I am married to Mr. Esola.

A colleague remarked that my daughter could be a progressive Muslim and perhaps make it to the title of Ayatolla Lola Esola. And perhaps she could like Coca Cola: The Ayatolla Lola Esola who likes Coca Cola.

Great, now everybody thinks this is some kind of a joke.

But seriously, I would be pulling a James Frey if I told you I did not spend a great deal of time this week perusing the Social Security Administration's Popular Baby Names Web site, in search of a name for a baby I am nowhere closer to having than if I were myself a tiny tot.

So, what did I settle on? Hmmm. Three possibilities, but I am not telling YOU, a potential baby name bandit.

But I will tell you that I learned my name -- Louise, popular in retirement communities and on medicare prescription cards -- first appeared on the "most popular" list in the 1880s era of civil war veteran benefits and freed slaves. Louise had its heydey at number 18 in the 1910s, beating out names like Blanche and Sophia. At the time, Dorothy came in third and Rose in 16th.

I knew it: I'm a Golden Girl.

The year I was born, the name I inherited from my paternal grandmother, was lost in outer space at 774th place.

And, might I add, Neil Diamond did sing a song about me in the 1980s.

Contact staff writer Louise Esola at lesola@nctimes.com. To comment, go to nctimes.com.