Peter

The fisherman Simon was renamed in a pun the entire church built on: Petros, rock, the stone on which something enormous would rest. The Greek word gave English Peter, and then Peter gave the world tsars and explorers, the nemesis of a white rabbit, a boy who refused to grow up, a spider in a red mask, and a saint at the gate deciding who gets in. It has been in more rooms than any other name in the language.

C.S. Lewis sent Peter to Narnia as the eldest, the one who carries the sword. J.M. Barrie sent him to Neverland as the boy who could not be caught. Beatrix Potter sent him under a garden gate after his father was made into pie. Tsar Peter took Russia to the sea. The name reached its American peak in the mid-twentieth century and has eased gently since, currently sitting at rank 192 — the exact sweet spot where a name is familiar without feeling borrowed wholesale from someone else's grandfather.

Two syllables, cleanly hinged at the hard stop in the middle — PEE-ter — the long front vowel giving way to a soft close. It pairs easily with Brayden, Miguel, Kevin, or Barrett in a sibling set. The boy named Peter tends to have a book he wants to tell you about, strong feelings about the right way to cook pasta, and the patience, most of the time, to wait for exactly the right moment before he says anything at all.