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Internets, that first trimester wasn’t much fun. (Well, the second week — REDACTED.) I’ll spare you the details on morning sickness (“morning” — ha!) and its constant, accompanying queasiness, but I will say the fatigue that goes along with it must be what it’s like to be on horse tranquilizers: Getting out of bed in the morning took a Herculean, gravity-defying effort; cooking and cleaning seemed a lifetime ago; class prep usually involved digging up last quarter’s notes in the ten or fifteen minutes before students arrived. Suffice it to say, not a shining quarter for me, although I’ve been very pleased with the quality of student writing I’m seeing, despite my sub-par energy level.
Then there were the cravings and aversions. I’m not militant about my diet, but Internets, it was a little distressing to go off coffee, chocolate, alcohol, and cheese all at the same time. Not because I wouldn’t have had them, but because I didn’t want them, and experienced (and am still experiencing) the strongest aversions in my life. So my diet for the past three months has consisted of whatever I think I can keep down, and it seems to mainly consist of Cheerios, Eggos with real butter and boysenberry syrup, fresh fruit, and my mom’s kick-ass Gravenstein applesauce. And occasionally a prenatal vitamin, when I can get one down. (Speaking of horses, have you seen those fucking pills? Do the manufacturers not understand how the sight of one of those brick-sized supplements triggers nausea in a pregnant woman even faster than the thought of a moldy cheese sandwich?)
But there have been some good parts that range from okay to jaw-dropping. Finding out we were pregnant can be filed under jaw-droppingly happy: I took about four home pregnancy tests that were so slightly positive that I thought them to be inconclusive, so I finally went to a clinic for confirmation. Joy. Finally telling the family and friends was also more fun than it probably should have been, thanks to the rampant skepticism on the part of, oh, everyone. (I believe my mother-in-law’s reaction was one of the best: “Seriously? Really? Seriously? On purpose?”)
Another pleasant development has been how great The Husband has been about everything, although it’s not surprising because he’s generally awesome: He’s cooked and cleaned and held my hair back and gone to the store at 10:30 p.m. for grapes, and he talks to my belly, even though I don’t think the baby can hear yet (which is probably a good thing because he once played Ziltoid for it, the poor fetus).
On a related note, I understand the shock and surprise many of you felt at our announcement, and I will admit to decent amounts of guilt for misleading you all, especially if I said anything over the past X months about “never having children.” It’s just that when we changed our minds, we didn’t know what the future held, didn’t know if we would actually have the baby we wanted, and therefore didn’t want change any expectations. A self-preservation thing, you see. But it was totally worth it for the looks on your faces when we finally did announce our news. And that guilt? It’s not weighing too heavily on my mind.
Haven’t talked this over with the Husband yet, but sure he’ll agree: since we can’t agree on a name for the fetus, have decided to sell naming rights to child (see also: sports stadium naming), with proceeds going toward child’s college fund. This offer applies to first and middle names only; if you wish to buy the child’s last name, there is a secret minimum that must be met, proceeds of which go to what we’ll call “The Early Retirement Fund.”
I’m standing firm, garbed with the belt of truth opinion, a breastplate of self-righteousness, and my feet fitted with the readiness to kick parents’ asses everyhwere: Yes, it’s another post about childish things by someone who doesn’t have children. Assess my ethos and get riled up accordingly.
This week’s topic: Grandparent names. I remember when my first sibling procreated and the discussion of what my parents should be called by the impending grandchildren –
[because, y'know, "Grandma" and "Grandpa" just wouldn't do, oh no! -- grandparents these days need unique names, not unlike parents who think an alternate spelling will showcase their child's uniqueness (instead of "Michelle" it's "Meeschelle"; instead of "Susie" it's "Souziee"; instead of "Chelsea" it's...hey, wait a minute...), and that same vanity appears to affect all generations, young and old; because grandparents these days aren't "grandma," they're "gramma" or "mimi" or "meemaw"; not "grandpa" but "pawpaw" or "poppy"]
– and, figuring that what my parents’ grandchildren called them wouldn’t really affect me, I offered my suggestions: “Grumps” and “Grim.” That was probably the first time my mom was even a tiny bit glad that I’m not having children. Suffice it to say, my family went in another direction with the name choices, and I was left to my child-free devices. Little did I know that listening to the sound of my nieces and nephew calling my parents “Pops” and “Grammie Lou” WOULD DRIVE ME UP THE WALL.
[Fortunately, my personality is such that the wall and I are intimate acquaintances, so much so that my foot- and handholds are quite well worn.]
It’s not that I want every grandparent to be “grandma” and “grandpa”, nor do I think everyone should have a “traditional” (or white/Anglo) name like “Tom” or “Sally.” Far from it. But I do find the overplanning wearisome — yet another part of a child’s life decided for him or her — and I would prefer to see grandparents’ names evolve naturally. Sure, go with “nana” if a child couldn’t pronounce “grandma” and it was this cute malapropism the kid hung onto. I see no problem with that. But to purposefully decide to misspell or go phonetic — is that necessary?
Not that it matters, mind you; my parents already have their new grandparent names firmly affixed, so were the flying pigs of hell to freeze over and we to have children, they’d probably go with the names established by the more procreationally inclined siblings.
Actually, to hell with hegemony; I’ll teach my kids to call their grandparents by their first names. Ha! Take that, Bwuth and Mawy Woo.
We were supposed to go boating on Sunday, which would have been a great way to beat the heat, but instead we’ll be out in the heat putting up the remainder of our fence — partly because we’re lazy and should’ve done this months ago (e.g. in May), and partly because we didn’t think the puppy would be SO DAMN EXCITED about being outside in the 100-plus degree weather. Her favorite activity — aside from gnawing on whatever forbidden object is nearest and showing her skill as the Westminster Poo Champion — is belly-flopping onto the grass, and then ten seconds later, scooting over toward a fresh shady patch, and then another, and another…. In fact, the damn dog would rather lay in the grass and then pee inside, where she doesn’t ruin valuable cool surface area.
Actually, I’m beginning to think that it’s a bit harder to have a dog than to have children because, aside from the rather major issue that dogs grow up faster than kids (THANK YOU, NATURE), kids generally can’t chew the table legs, pee/poop/slobber with reckless abandon in every conceivable corner, and willfully hide from you, all at the same time. My understanding is that kids tend to do these things in stages (not that I particularly want this process to grow longer, but I’d love to have fewer worries). And kids have diapers. AND, AND, THEY DON’T HAVE THOSE GODDAMN SQUEAKY CHEW TOYS.
Hang on, I’m not done. More evidence: the house is a mess, I haven’t showered, I’ve done a load of laundry every day since she arrived, and only on two of those days has the laundry not been poo-related; no one gets a good night’s sleep because yes, I have to let her outside and feed her in the night (see also: poo laundry); she cries if you aren’t with her ALL THE TIME, and then when you are with her, she prefers biting your feet to chew toys, as the footholder squeals louder.
But the fact remains that, while I suppose you could just put your child out to pasture in the back yard while you go about your day, it remains socially acceptable to only do this for dogs. So in order to allow her to enjoy the yard without adult supervision, and so I can finally take a goddamn shower without worrying about stepping out into a pile or puddle of Lucy fluids, we’ve got to finish the effing fence while simultaneously resisting the urge to flop down onto the grass right beside her.
Now I realize that, oh, every child psychologist in the world, and probably 99 percent of parents would disagree, but that’s why I have the tag “opinions on childish things by someone who doesn’t have children.” Which is to say, I really don’t care.
Today’s issue is brought to you by the nonverbal lungpower of my niece and nephew. They are about the same age, which is nearly 2. And it is fortunate that they are adorable and giggly most of the time, because the little bit of time they spend screaming? Well, let’s just say I could push them off a glacier and make it look like an accident.
So my theory is this: children’s lungpower should develop as they mature. Let them make low-decibel noises like cooing and giggling, sure, anytime after birth (or, what the hell, I’m not ageist: before birth, too); but the high decibel noises, i.e. SCREAMING THEIR BLOODY LUNGS OFF, that should not be possible until they’re able to verbalize what they want or need.
But, you say, how else will they learn to communicate?
Don’t worry, I thought that through, and here’s my answer:
QUIETLY.
Matt and I are close to a detente in the Great Puppy Name Stalemate of 2009; I’ll withhold it for now, pending approval, while crossing my fingers, tossing salt over my shoulder (or, wait, is that for luck or safety?), and making his favorite food in order to get this issue put to bed. However, a minor point has arisen that I would like to share.
I — and I’m speaking from experience here — would like to encourage all of you who name things to PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, don’t give your child a common name AND THEN SPELL IT WEIRD JUST TO BE DIFFERENT. Although my name is not particularly common, I still cannot count the number of people, especially professors and co-workers, who spell my name wrong. ALL THE TIME.
The great thing about cursing your child with an uncommon spelling to a common name is that the kid, not you, gets to bear all the stupid questions that come along with it:
“Why do you spell it that way?”
“Because that’s how it’s written on my birth certificate.”
“Oh. Why did your parents spell it that way?”
“Because in spite of their graduate degrees, they’re illiterate. And they hate me, and they wanted me to spend an awful lot of my life correcting other people.” AND HAVING THIS CONVERSATION.
Because this is what happens when you don’t correct people: sure, it’s not a big deal when your professor or boss misspells your name the first time, but when he does it on a recommendation letter for that job you really want? Yeah. Good luck with that.
I don’t have kids, something we can ALL be thankful for, but boy do I have opinions about them. Thus, I introduce a new blog category: opinions on childish things by someone who doesn’t have children. Yes, I know I’m not supposed to have, let alone air, my opinions when I don’t have the “rightful” experience to back it up, but fuck all if I’m not gonna do it anyway. Assess my ethos and get riled up accordingly.
So, for today’s topic, it’s middle names. Primarily Englishy middle names, as I know naming traditions, rituals, and rules can vary by ethnicity. For the most part, I don’t get the point of having a middle name. Tradition merely for the sake of tradition is stupid, an opinion of mine which is not shared by my in-laws, for whom I must create much angst. (Sorry.)
Anyway: middle names are nearly completely pointless. Or in the case of those who for whatever reason go by their middle name, then the first name is nearly completely pointless. If your name is Winnifred Cinderella Dorkus, and you go by Cinderella, then “Winnifred” is nearly completely pointless. The only people who see it are teachers at role call who will inevitably stumble over it, people who actually look at your birth announcements, and the government official making your passport or driver license.
Therefore, when I hear about couples who each pick a name, first and middle, they don’t both win. Whoever picked the first name won, and the other person got the lamest consolation prize: a middle name hardly anyone will know or care about. The important thing to decide in this scenario is, Who is the more gracious loser? THAT person should pick the middle name.
However, there are two reasons I can figure that makes middle names sensible. One is if you want to honor someone by naming your child after them, but you don’t want to honor them enough to give the child that first name. Which is valid, in my opinion, seeing as how my middle name is my grandmother’s name but I don’t think I’d've liked for it to be my first name (good call, Mom and Dad). The other is if you want to pass along a family name, such as a parent’s last name or maiden name.
The middle name choices I really don’t like are those that create junior, III, IV, etc. names, where the poor male descendant spends his life explaining exactly which Robert Richard Rogerson he is (“the third, like III, like eye-eye-eye – no Robert is not spelled with three I’s!”), and fighting credit card companies, loan collectors, doctors’ offices, and the Social Security Administration for his identity. That’s one tradition I’m glad I didn’t marry into because it sure as hell would not be continuing unless I died giving birth in which case YOU BETTER FEEL GUILTY EVERY TIME YOU SAY THE DAMN KID’S NAME, HUSBAND.
I also find it totally bogus for people to write into forums or advice columns, agonizing over OMG OMG WHICH ORDER OF NAMES IS BEST, whining, “Would ‘Crabtree Polyphenalphosphate’ sound better if it were switched around?” and have other people respond, “You really shouldn’t mix multi-syllabic words; try ‘Crabtree John.’” Sheesh, people — who’s going to end up calling this baby by its full name unless it’s a parent, and they’re shouting “Darnell BobbyJohn Tuckus, you get your grimy little ass in here RIGHT NOW!”, in which case it’s funnier for the kid if mom or dad stumbles a bit in delivery.
The worst are people who agonize over the initials. My parents, for example, knew they wanted my brother to be “J. B. Lastname,” and they knew the B would be a family name, but they couldn’t decide on a J name (like there aren’t a million out there?). So what name did they finally pick? Jay. I KNOW. *sigh* When it comes to initials, the only ones you ever need to avoid are KKK (and perhaps ACLU and FUK, although some people would get a kick out of that last one).
For my part, I’m going to give my nonexistent children the most ridiculous middle names I can think of: “Johnny Mythbuster” or “Jane Pinkieprincess.” Or I’ll give them TWO middle names, one of them being “the.” And all caps, why not? “Jill THE DESTROYER” or “Jack THE KISSABLE-TOED.” Yeah. Take that, society!
And now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to wade through some Nordic baby names in search of the perfect bulldog name. Current favorite: Murgatroyd Hortensia, if it’s a girl.
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