A Rose By Any Other Name...

would... be... something else.

Names matter. I've made a hobby of learning about names- origins, meanings, you name it, I know it (or can at least look it up in one of my, ahem, six name books). I've used naming my own children as an excuse to continue looking up and pairing up names that I don't need and won't ever use. You don't have to tell me it's weird, I know.

There's one baby name site, where people post polls for names they're trying to choose between, or to request help finding a good middle name to go with what they've chosen for a first. I frequently post suggestions, and I cannot tell you the joy it brings me when the next poll someone posts is to choose between two names I've suggested. I'm naming babies of total strangers, folks. Again, weird, I know.

It always fascinates me what people name their kids. There are so many great names to choose from. I love originality, but sentimentality is wonderful too. And then, sometimes I'm horrified when it's obvious someone didn't think through what the initials would spell, or the vile nicknames that are inevitable (hello, middle school), or even the meaning of their child's name. Wouldn't you want to know if you were naming your kid "muddy ditch" or "crooked nose" or something far worse?

I think the name thing started for me as a kid. My siblings are Craig, Kelly and Chris, and then there's me. The lone W sound. I never thought I was a Wendy. I went through a stage of telling my mom I would be changing my name once I turned 18. But I never could settle on a name that I thought was me. Then in grade six I attended a little private school, where there were names I had never encountered. Kaede (kai-day), Tinka, Khione, Haven and Zinnat were just a few, and then in high school, Marika, Ganga (gung-guh), Pia and Zoran... I had to know where they came from, what they meant, and the obsession grew.

Some name choices, I admit, I don't get. Naming your kid after a brand, like Lexus or Chanel, for instance. Or after a soap opera character, which may be the lowest form of baby naming. A quick perusing of an online list brings us little gems like Cricket, Babe, Boobsie (you think I'm kidding) and Seabone. That, friends, is all kinds of wrong.

It's always entertaining to me to see which names suddenly jump up or on to the "most popular" lists after celebrities use them. Vivienne, which is really a beautiful name (properly pronounced in French, it's 2 syllables, viv-yen, with the emphasis on the second syllable), was nowhere to be seen in the top 1000 names for years, then miraculously after Brangelina chose it for one of their brood, it debuted at #532 in 2009. I'm willing to bet we'll see a lot more Harlow's and Honor's in the next few years too. And Twilight-ers, do you think it's a coincidence that Isabella has held the number one or two spot for the last 3 years?

Names can be ruined or improved by association. If you've known someone really awful or weird, chances are you'd never use their name for one of your own kids, no matter how great a name it might be on its own. If you've only ever known beautiful Laurens and heavy Melissas, it will probably influence how you feel about those names. Names of spouses' exes are off-limits. Even pushy family members may feel the need to weigh in when they have strong feelings about someone they knew once with the name you're considering.

The bottom line is, kids are stuck with what we choose. They have no input in the choice of their name. And what seemed like a brilliant name for a baby may not sound so hot on a 55 year old.

Everyone will not love your name or your kids' names, and ultimately that doesn't matter. You'll be the one saying them thousands of times throughout your life. But a little research into the matter can't hurt. Seriously. Please.

http://babynamegenie.com
http://www.ssa.gov/OACT/babynames/

http://nameberry.com

Melancholy Much?

Pensive reflection or contemplation, sadness, gloom.

Places I've been, things I've done, people I've loved, people I've lost, hard things I've overcome, oppourtunities I've missed, joyful times I don't get to do over... I really don't have time to reflect or be pensive about any of these things, but I must say I'm guilty, I've rounded the bases of the melancholic many a day.

Not a big wallower, I spend a good deal of time going back over fun, hilarious things from my life too. But you must admit, there's something about hearing a certain song, while it's raining outside and there's no one around to interrupt your thoughts... or seeing old pictures and feeling that little bit of sadness welling up underneath the smile those same pictures put on your face. As I've experienced some of those things lately, I've wondered, what's the point? What is the use of this seemingly useless state of mind?

I tend to be a big thinker anyway. I don't usually say a lot of what comes to mind, even when I probably should ( which is improvement from my younger days, when more often the opposite was true). So maybe feeling a bit melancholy is a bi-product of thinking too much...? Sometimes, for me, I think it's a way of taking stock of mistakes, successes, and those things or people I hope to revisit one day, whether in this life or the next, and sorting through it all, searching for the memories worth keeping.

This contemplation, whether pensive or sad, is something I'm sure we all have in common. We have all lived, after all, so I think there's no avoiding it. And why would we want to? I know I've got some great moments and a fabulous soundtrack so far, and I'm nowhere near done yet.

I Don't Get It: Why Some Bad Words Are Bad

Don't be afraid, I'm not going to go on a cursing tirade here. I am a person who loves words. And names. But we'll get into my name obsession some other time. I love it when I hear new-to-me words, I love words that have tons of different meanings, I love words that just sound cool, language fascinates me.

What I don't get, is how some words become bad words, or even offensive. One of those words is "douche". This one's at the forefront of my mind after last night's episode of the Bachelorette. Even if you take the word douche at its worst meaning, it is just a feminine cleansing product. How is that bad? It cleans. Would it not be more pointedly rude to call someone, say, itch cream? "Douche" is also the French word for "shower". I like showers. "Hey, that guy just called me a shower-bag!". Wow, you told him.

And who decided, for instance, that another word starting with "p" is somehow much worse than being "ticked' off at someone?
They mean the same thing, don't they?

I wonder, are you closer to heaven because you called someone a frickin' anything? Everyone knows what you meant.

English word for cigarette and innocent little pansy flower, when did you become derogatory names for a gay man?

I love the word "jackass". I love saying it, I love hearing other people say it, and yet I hesitate to say it (depending on who is around), which is ridiculous since I have never once hesitated to use the word "donkey" around anyone, ever.

Who decides which words become off-limits? When is that pivotal moment that it goes from a noun or adjective minding its own business to something so taboo you can't even say it out loud to your kids to teach them what not to say? Now that the chicken and egg question has been answered for once and for all, I'd like somebody to get back to me on this whole thing.

Little Dude #2

I've been pondering Noah lately. He had a rough day today. Nothing huge, a few little seizures, but it was obvious with all the screaming, shrieking, throwing things, and swings he took at a few of us that he was feeling a little off. It's hard to know what causes days like this, whether it's pain, frustration or something else completely, because he can't tell us. Sometimes he gets like this when seizures are brewing, but not always. And sometimes he has big seizures with no warning or fanfare at all. That's what happened a few weeks ago.

Noah had 9 seizures in about 26 hours. More, actually, if I were to count the small-by-comparison tremors he had in between, but 9 full blown, everything else stops seizures. The shortest was a minute, the longest just over 3 minutes. Do you know how long 3 minutes is, when someone you love is suffering, and there's not a lot you can do? It's an absolute eternity. All of these were really pretty violent. His little body is just limp, totally spent afterwards. Often he throws up during the seizures or after. There are a lot of details that have become just a part of our lives that I won't go into here. But one thing I hate, that I absolutely hate, are the thoughts I am forced to think as this little boy's mom.

At times, I feel like there must be something wrong with me, that I am crazy at best, and morbid at worst. When I watch him in that state, I wonder sometimes, do you even want to be here, little boy? He just looks at me with this look that says, you have no idea, mom, no idea at all. When he sleeps too long sometimes, I have the fleeting thought, is this it? Is this the day he had a seizure I didn't hear, and he has choked, and... I shake it off and go check on him to be sure. But the pit in my stomach tends to stay around. We almost lost him once already, and a couple of other times, it was some persistent angels keeping one of us awake when we otherwise would have been asleep, and lo and behold, some giant seizure where he's choking, or gets wedged between the bed and the wall and seems to be struggling to breathe... It is no joke, this regularly having my child's mortality thrown in my face. I cannot describe the way it feels, and doubt I would want to even if I could.

Noah isn't here for himself. He's here for the rest of us morons that haven't figured things out yet. At times, part of me wants to learn the lessons of Noah so that he can be freed of this body that galls him so. Part of me wants to claim ignorance or stupidity for life because I can't bear the thought of life without this little, inadequately wrapped bit of perfection that is my son.

And then I see him soaring through the air on a swing, or jumping gleefully on the trampoline, or cracking himself up with whatever random thing he finds funny that day, and I am grateful. Maybe he'll be convinced to stay a while.

Shave This.

I'd like to find, yell at, and then slap around the first woman who shaved her legs. Why, lady? Why would you do a thing like that?

Men need to shave their faces (just FYI, I always dated/liked smooth-faced guys, even before BYU where it was mandated, unless you were in the theatre department and sporting a beard card with your facial scruff). Guys need to keep the facial area clear for eating, breathing, maintaining honesty about how big their double chin really is... plus facial hair could actually grow long and wild enough to house birds or other woodland creatures. Men also like to kiss women, and most women appreciate not having scraped up, rashy lips or faces. As for me, I can't remember the last time anyone made out with my calf or knee, or the last time I found a stray bit of food caught in my leg hair.

No one ever would have been the wiser if no woman had ever shaved her legs. We're already much less hairy than men, and I'm confident that would have been enough to keep both sides happy. Leave well enough alone, I say!

But now it's too late. The expectation is total smoothness. If anyone should shave their legs, it's men. If anyone should be disgusted by hairiness on the opposite sex, it's women. But no, we women, along with the time-stealing hair and make-up routines, have to shave our legs, that, when most of us first started this pointless little exercise, probably had nothing more than fine, light, barely visible hair on them.

And then, why legs? Why stop there? Wax your toes, shave your arms, heck, get rid of those disgusting hairy things above your eyes.

It only has to seem like a good idea to one woman and maybe a handful of men, ladies, and it's total hairlessness for all of us.