Motherhood Uncensored

Playing the Name Game

We came up with Drew's name the day before I had him. Up until then we had absolutely nothing, which is great when people keep asking you what you're going to name the baby or like my in-laws did when they heard we had picked "Quinlan," offer us a list of "acceptable names."

No joke.

Even after Drew was born we still couldn't exactly figure out what to name him. There we sat, with our baby screaming from the warmer with no answer to all the excited nurses asking us what his name was. I'd always laughed about those people who took their kid home without a name, but that was almost us. And so, I laugh no more.

Since we almost had a no name baby here (or Chalk, as Quinlan named him), it's no surprise that this time around we have been struggling. But struggling is inordinately better than not having anything at all.

So we're trying to eliminate a few right now before we move onto the "You want to name our kid what? No fucking way!" round which, by the way, is always great for marital relations. I'd honestly love to hear your thoughts. Be specific. It's my kid's name for god sakes.

BOYS

Mozart (huge fan)

Emeril (huge fans, too)

Orville (like the popcorn, and you know, the plane thing)

Arkie (cute and where he was conceived!)

GIRLS

Electra (Loved the movie!)

Lavendar (Sort of like Violet but not)

October (It's her birth month, afterall -- plus, Halloween!)

Gerta (German Heritage -- cute family name)

Okay, so what say you? Love 'em, hate 'em...?? Now onto middle names. God help me.

We'll Have the Soy Corned Beef & Cabbage Please

It took me only an uncanny three short weeks of having various meat products thrown at my head to figure out that my son might just not like meat.

Seriously people. It's amazing I make it through the day without a checklist. 1) Open eyes. 2) Find toilet. 3) Pee.

I've never been a huge meat lover, so I suppose I shouldn't have been so surprised. Plus, he flabbergasted us all when we found him downing seaweed and tofu like it was baby crack. Of course, he is a quarter Asian to which I was chalking up his overall brilliance and propensity towards playing the violin and math equations. Silly me. Of course he'd like rice and seaweed.

heh.

So, after being hit with yet another piece of perfectly good steak, I decided that it might be time to seek out other non-animal options, especially since he has now taken to biting people (the kid needs protein and he will get it any way he can).

Flavored tofu? Sweet!

Fake chicken nuggets? Winner!

Garden burgers? Yes please!

[Consequently I was unaware that they were still making Gardenburgers available to the mass public, you know, other than that pithy salad alternative for poor vegetarians who get suckered into eating at Applebees.]

Now, while I have solved the protein issue, I'm still working hard on dairy products, which unless they come in pint form from our favorite Vermont pals Ben and Jerry, he's not so interested in either. And quite frankly, I much prefer picking up fourteen pieces of roast pork off the floor than having to scrape numerous pieces of perfectly good cheese off my leg.

He spits out American cheese like it's a large Rhodesian cockroach that's still alive. And he makes the bitter beer face when I try to give him regular yogurt as opposed to soy.

[Although apparently now soy can kill you these days, so what the hell am I supposed to do other than lock my kids in a closet and feed them boiled water and air!]

Now, I wouldn't go so far as to say my son is a vegan. Aside from being beaten up by some frail wayward vegan googler who thankfully took time to make sure I knew that the bread used in my "vegan" peanut butter and jelly recipe could possibly have honey and OH GOD THE BEES THOSE POOR BEES!, my son much prefers to chew on leather shoes rather than pleather.

And then there's the carpet fuzz, paper, and hair.

I just don't know exactly what that makes him, other than a cat.

Ambivalence. How's That for a Baby Name?

I admit that for the last week or so I've been stuck in a place between desperation and a nervous breakdown. Combine that with wicked gas, spontaneous crying, two sick children, and the fear of a miscarriage, and it's like a weekend in Mississippi!

Okay. I'm kidding.

Sort of.

For the record, I am freaking the fuck out. You know, just in case you were wondering. The "freaking the fuck out" part has less to do with the idea of a cute little addition to our family, and more about my ability to handle three children (eek, can barely say that) in a way that doesn't make me want to shave my head and party late nights without my underpants.

I'm trying my darndest to live day by day, and not look ahead to October, where I see my poor unshowered stinky gigunda self trying to manage three kids and work, mostly alone, with no family within a 1500 mile radius.

And up goes the "freak" meter.

I admit that your comments, congratulations, and thoughtful emails did wonders. Your excitement will be my excitement. At some point soon, I hope. And apparently a positive pregnancy test is a good way to delurk people (so nice to meet you all, officially now).

Plus, there are babysitters, nannies, and booze to be had. And cool bloggy friends who I will force my baby upon. 

But today, I'm okay. Other than wanting to toss my cookies unless I'm actively shoving food into my gullet (which is now baby related -- I did actually have the stomach flu) and waiting desperately for my second set of HcG levels (4590 were the first set. Is that high? I'm still looking at ONE baby right? RIGHT?), I'm doing okay.

And right now. This instant. That's all that matters.

Well, If You Were Reaaaaaaaaaaally Wondering, It's the International Symbol For...

You've Got to Keep Him Separated

My son has decided that the only place that doesn't cause him great emotional tribulation and grief is in my arms.

Not laying next to me. Or even on top of me. Or even attached to my boob.

You'd think that being attached to one's nipple would be completely and utterly satisfying, but he just blows zerberts on them when he's not hungry. (um. hello. weaning cue?)

Nope. He wants to be held, by me, all the time.

Unless he's playing in the dog's water bowl, putting the entire contents of my coverup in his mouth and on his face (How he opened the bottle is beyond me. He's brilliant! A future professional make-up bottle opener!), or using the open dishwasher door as a trampoline.

Funny. He was completely and utterly satisfied when he tossed the DVD remote into the toilet yesterday on my husband's watch. 

But then I come home, or wake up, or come out of hiding and he's nestled into my extremely tired arms.

So do I let him destroy the house?

Or hold a 26 pound one-year-old. That can walk.

(Thanks so much for that brilliant advice. Would you like to come over and hold him all. day. long?)