What’s in a Name?

“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell just as sweet.” --William Shakespeare (Romeo and Juliet, II, ii, 1-2) When I was pregnant with each of my girls, I lost a fair amount of sleep over choosing the perfect name for them. Especially with our second girl, I found it hard to find the ideal name. We had our share of rules: easy to say and spell (for his entire life, my hubby’s name has been mispronounced and misspelled more often than not, so this was huge for him…for the same reason, he insisted that their names be found in the top 100 most popular girls’ names); at least two syllables (with our last name, this was a must); no negative associations (other teachers can relate to this…though we love all of our students, naming a child after one of them can be tricky); no initials or nicknames that would cause our daughter to be mocked (this is one of the reasons I vetoed the hubby’s desire to have Emma’s middle name be the same as mine. If she became E.L.K. and happened to grow up to be less than tiny, I could imagine the scene on the playground); and our final rule, not able to be shortened (after all, if we were going to this much trouble to pick a name, wouldn’t we want that to be the name the child is actually called? Plus, that way a teacher wouldn’t call our child by the wrong name every time she started a school year.) I don’t think these are universal ideals by which all children should be named…they were just the quirky rules that governed our decisions. As you can tell, I put way too much thought into this. After all, as the great Shakespeare so adeptly said, “That which we call a rose (or a lily) by any other name would smell just as sweet.” Still, I was afraid that somehow the naming of our girls would impact who they were or how they thought of themselves, and I thought that they each deserved to have their name very carefully mulled over. It seemed a small price to pay to lie awake trying to figure out every possible positive and negative connotation a name could bring over the course of their lifetime. Now, looking back at the hours and hours we (especially I) spent trying to name our girls, I am struck with the irony of what has happened. The fact is, we almost never use their names. We are a nickname family. 

For the sake of our family’s nostalgia someday, I decided to compile a list of the nicknames for each of my girls. To think, I worried so much about what we would call them. It turns out that the pet names we’ve given our girls tell more about them (and us…I guess we’re more whimsical than our naming rules might have suggested) than any name we could have chosen before we knew who they really were. Another mom and I were talking once about how, as hard as you try to choose the perfect name for your child, once you get to know the unique little one you have been given, your name choice can’t help but seem woefully inadequate. I told her that I think it is because there is no single word that can possibly encompass all of the hopes and dreams, all of the uniqueness and promise of the sweet life that you are able to watch unfold before you. I guess that is why Conant and I have broken our rule about nicknames. As our girls and our relationship with them continue to evolve, so will the names that we will use to call them to the dinner table, to tuck them in at night, to swing them in our arms. That’s the beauty of nicknames…they aren’t written on any official documents, they don’t have to follow any rules, and one word doesn’t have to capture all we feel for the miracle that is each of our daughters. 

Emma Grace: Munchy (for her ability to eat almost constantly from the time she was a small baby...who could blame her, weighing in at 5 lbs. 12 oz. and 20 inches long?), Munchy Punchy (a combo of her ability to eat and the fists she made as an infant), Munch-a-Puncha (again, her love of eating and the fact that she looked like a prized fighter with her fists always at the ready), The Munch (notice how many derivatives we made from just one character trait…I didn’t say imaginative, just whimsical),  Emma Bunny (she had the cutest little bunny robe as a baby), Bun-a-Bun (stemming from the bunny thing), Bun to the Oven (silly tangential from the bunny), Pumpkin (just a term of endearment), Pumpkin Pie (she was too sweet to leave off the dessert portion), Emma Gracie Facey (having fun with her middle name), Gracie Facey (just a shorter version), Sissy (a term of endearment for her new status as the big sis),   

Lily Rebecca: Peanut (Conant’s nickname for the 6 lb. 2 oz. addition to our family), Peanut Butter (my add-on to Conant’s nickname…maybe my girls get their love of food from me?? I think I’m responsible for all of the food nicknames.), Lily-Meister (a goofy one I came up with in my sleep-deprived state when Lily was new and I wanted her to sound extra-cool to her big sister), Lily, Lily, Golden Bell (some friends gave us an Elisabeth Mitchell CD that has this song on it…great kids’ music because it is palatable for the adult, too…hard to come by and worth nicknaming a kid over), Golden Belle (do you get the trend? Another take off from the Elisabeth Mitchell song…Emma very sweetly calls her baby sister this quite regularly), Lily Pad (courtesy of Uncle J…really should have seen this one coming…missed it during my pregnancy ponderings), More to come, I’m sure...

Half a Lifetime Ago

This morning, I feel like I should be wearing one of those post-prom “Up All Night” t-shirts, the ones they give you when you go to an all-night, school sponsored party after prom. They give out the shirts so you can proudly let everyone know that you are old enough to go to prom, to be up the entire night afterwards, and then probably to sleep until noon.

Wow, have things changed. Now, when I have nights like last night, when I was up much of the night with a crying, stuffed up eight-month-old, there’s no t-shirt, and the next day, there’s no sleeping until noon. There is feeling old, though…old and tired, that is. I was one of those people who, even in college, used to need (and get) nine hours of sleep per night. I think I am still that person who needs nine hours a night. It’s just that it doesn’t happen. And for the past three nights, as my poor peanut battles a cold, it seems that I’ve been up during the night as much (or more) than I’ve been snuggling the pillow. This morning, I thought of that post-prom party pride, and I thought, “That seems like half a lifetime ago.” Then, I realized it pretty much was. And that made me feel even more old and tired.

It’s not such a sad tale, though, because I’ve discovered during the many sleep deprived nights and days of motherhood that my longstanding devotion to the inside of my eyelids, to REM, to my comfy pillow and warm bed, is so greatly outdistanced by my fierce love and dedication to the little ones whose cries catapult me out of the bed. There is no one else on earth I’d rather lose sleep over. I remember a day when I was ready to become a mother before I had my own babies to hold, and I wished for those middle of the night snuggles. Now that they’re here, I’m going to remember that those dark circles under my eyes are a t-shirt of sorts, a proclamation that along with millions of others, I am brave enough to be a mom, to be up the entire night if I have to be, to still take care of my kids in the morning when half a lifetime ago I would have slept until noon. I guess I’m not so old after all. I’m doing something I probably couldn’t have done before I knew the power of my own baby’s cries.

There’s No Place Like Grandpa and Grandma’s House

Emma really loves going to Grandpa and Grandma’s house. No, I mean she really loves it. I told my parents this recently, and my mom said, “I don’t know why. It’s not like we spoil her.” Actually, they do spoil her, but not in that take-your-kid-to-the-toy store-and-buy-them-everything-in-sight kind of way. They spoil her in the sweetest and most priceless way possible: they make her feel like the most important person in the room, in the world for that matter. They laugh at her jokes, coo about how beautiful and smart she is, read book after book to her, and don’t flinch at giving her seconds, thirds, and fourths of homemade applesauce and squash. She knows that they delight in her, and in turn, she asks to see them regularly. The other day, I asked her where her favorite place to go is, and she quipped, “Dora and Boots’ house.” These are the nicknames that she has given my parents, and they generate even more laughter from some of her biggest fans. Granted, they’re an easy audience, but that’s part of the allure for her. She knows that she’s guaranteed a lot of extra love whenever they’re around. Whereas Mom has to juggle laundry, cleaning, baby sister, and more, “Dora and Boots” are able to take a break from most of their responsibilities and give undivided attention to Emma. She not only craves it, she basks in it. It warms our hearts to see her developing such a close and trusting relationship with them. In fact, we relocated from out of state when I was pregnant with Emma so that she could have a special bond with them. We just didn’t know how very special it would be when we made that big move. Now, we see Lily starting to develop that same kind of trust and love. There’s nothing quite like seeing others love your kids so passionately and devotedly. Like any strong relationship, it’s a mutual admiration society. My parents say that being a grandparent is the best job they’ve ever had. And to that, Emma says, “You’re hired!” We couldn’t agree more.

A Breakthrough!

This morning, we officially had a breakthrough at our house. Lily, at eight months old, has a small, sharp point of a tooth popping out of her bottom gum. We are all very excited (with the exception of Lily, who does not yet know that this brings her one step closer to yummy things like pizza, stir fry, and all things worth chewing.) It seems like ever since she turned eight months old on Monday, she has been adding to her list of accomplishments daily. Last week, she rolled from tummy to back for the first time, and now it seems an easy feat for her. Tuesday, she got her belly off the ground in a stance that lets me know I’ll probably be chasing her very soon. The past few days, her babbling has become so close to actual word sounds that Emma asks me several times a day, “Can she talk, Mommy?” The amazing thing about watching your baby grow is that it is so very exciting and equally sad in a nostalgic sort of way. I am deeply grateful for developmental milestones, but I will also truly miss the sweet innocence of that gummy grin.

There’s No Two Legs, There’s No Four Arms

Last night, Emma was looking longingly at my lap, my partially used lap through her big sister-colored glasses. Perched there, in all her baby sweetness, was Lily. Emma has been a loving, kind big sister from the time she first saw her baby sister on ultrasound. Granted, she insisted that Lily was a doggy when she first saw her on the screen, but she was very devoted nonetheless. However, there are still moments when she (naturally) wishes for more of mommy. I saw the wheels turning, the wistful look, and then came the sweet two-year-old voice, “There’s no two legs for Emma.” She knows that I will offer to share my lap, giving a leg to each girl, but she didn’t want just part of a lap. She wanted more. One leg didn’t seem to be enough. Fast forward to this morning…I like to think of myself as slightly more mature than my two-year-old, but today I found myself in the same boat. As we were leaving a Toddler Time class and I was beginning to bundle Lily for the arctic temperatures, Emma declared, “I need to use the potty.” This was not said in a nonchalant tone, but more like what you would hear in an action movie: “You have ten seconds, mommy, act fast.” I tore off Lily’s outerwear, grabbed Emma, and raced for the nearest public restroom. Frantically, I used my one free hand (the other arm was holding baby Lily) to tear off toilet paper to place on the toilet. Cleanliness and parenting do not always go hand in hand, but I haven’t given up yet…lowered my standards, but not given up completely. With my free arm, I helped Emma lower her jeans, hoisted her onto the now “safe” potty, and let her do her thing while Lily got a close up view of the whole scene. Now it is my fear that Emma, still being small, will fall into the toilet and all of our hard earned potty training work a few months ago will go down the drain. An irrational fear? No, it happened to me as a kid and still gives my otherwise humane older brother a good chuckle. Anyway, I am desperately trying to keep her on the toilet paper, out of the toilet water, and feeling safe and secure…while making sure her baby sister doesn’t touch anything, topple over, or realize that it’s been too many hours since she was last fed. And I found myself thinking, “I want more. Two arms just don’t seem to be enough.” Thankfully, in between the sound of the flushing toilet and the cries of a hungry baby, I realized how blessed I am to have two arms full of children and a lap that is almost overflowing with love. I guess it’s how you look at it…no two legs, no four arms…but just the right amount of being needed by two girls who I am lucky enough to hold.

Making Sure There’s No Second-Rate in Being Second

As I write this, Emma is watching her thirty minute DVD. It’s her TV allotment for the day, and she waited two years until she got viewing privileges. It’s a prized time in her day, though thankfully she still loves books and playtime with us, and we don’t even have to wear a big purple suit (think Barney.) As I write this, too, though, Lily is doing incredible, Cirque du Soleil worthy acrobatics to try to view the TV screen that I have tried to conceal with a blanket draped over a play gym. She is intent on seeing that glowing screen. Everyone told me that I would ease up on things with my second child, and I do feel a greater sense of ease in parenting her, but I also have a strong desire to make sure that there is no second-rate in being second. Maybe this is born of the fact that both my husband and I are second children, or maybe it is the teacher in me trying to make sure that the rules stay fair, but if I was worried about Emma’s brain development at this age, I want to be equally respectful of Lily’s neurons getting a chance to fire as well as possible, which means Lily is going to have to wait until her second birthday, too. The challenge, of course, is how to have her watch Emma delight in the beautiful glowing screen for the next year and a half while being denied the right herself. It’s tough to see your older sibling getting to do everything first, and it hardly seems fair to be held accountable for two years that occurred before you were ever on the earth. How are you supposed to catch up when you weren’t given the chance to be at the starting line when your older sibling took off? I wish I knew the answers to these questions. In the meantime, I am desperately questioning adults to find out how they and their own parents manage(d) the task of parenting separate but equally and reading the book Siblings Without Rivalry. I’m hoping that God will impart some wisdom in between bites of Malt-O-Meal. Hopefully I’ll have half as many answers as I have questions by the time Lily can ask me why she isn’t allowed to do the things her older sister is already doing. By the way, if your child is a Baby Einstein from all the DVDs (s)he watches, there’s definitely no judgment here. I’m so far from having all the answers about brain development, television viewing habits, and raising sisters who feel equally loved that I will not judge. I’m too busy critiquing myself and trying to make sure that I do as well as I can with my own two beautiful blessings. Thirty years from now, we might discover that kids who watched TV early were somehow at a greater advantage to compete in our technological society…then Lily will really have a reason to hold a grudge. Hopefully by then Barney will have imparted his wisdom, and she will realize that we really are a happy family.

The Big Questions Come From the Britax

Saturday, Emma was relaxing in her Britax car seat, looking cool in her pink flowery shades, and quietly forming philosophies of life and spirituality. Suddenly, we heard her say, “It’s time for a Bible story. What does God eat for breakfast?” My hubby, Conant, and I looked at each other, and he (having recently read a variety of parenting books and trying hard to ask rather than answer) astutely replied, “What do you think He eats for breakfast, Emma?” Without reading any books on theology or consulting Philippians, John Ortberg, the Pope, or Joel Olstein, she confidently proclaimed, “God has Malt-O-Meal for breakfast.” Of course, this makes sense. Emma has unsweetened oatmeal with wheat germ and flax seed for breakfast nearly every morning, and about once a month, for a special treat, she has Malt-O-Meal. So why wouldn’t God get to have Malt-O-Meal every day? He is God, after all. He’s allowed to have treats any time He likes. C quickly dubbed Malt-O-Meal “Food of the God.” I think Emma might be getting it twice this month.