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On the fifth day of Christmas, my true loves gave to me: a 5 seater Volvo SUV……… 4 Diego drawings, 3 tasty treats, 2 U.S. passports and a mushy brain with no memory…..
Well actually no such exchange took place. I didn’t open my front door to find a Volvo with a red ribbon around it. The only ‘trade’ that occurred was the one in the professor’s mind. If he disliked the car-van before last week, he dislikes it even more now.
He spent the latter part of the week wishing for a new Volvo XC90; drooling over pictures of one on the internet, but his wish did not come true.
It started with some minor issues. The heat in the car-van is semi-non-existent. Not only does it take at least thirty minutes before the car-van will eject a semblance of heat, the heat is paltry. At best. During a family drive last Sunday, the comments from the peanut gallery consisted of: ‘I’m cold’….’I'm freezing’. And they were inside the car.
There was also a tiny matter of the brakes switching in and out of ABS mode. Seemingly randomly. For no reason whatsoever.
So Jason dropped the Venture off at the Midas shop that’s spitting distance from our house. When I collected the van about five hours later, the mechanic handed me a printout with a bottom line of $2200. That’s what it would take to address the heating and brakes issues. Awesome.
Apparently the temperature problem is one that can be found in many GM vehicles made between 1999 and 2004. So now, besides Ford on the professor’s ‘car-hit-list’ (thanks to his college blue Mercury Topaz) there’s a special place for Chevy/GM.
That night he spent several hours online coveting Volvos and the like. Mumbling about his disdain of all things minivan and American-made and who knows what else. I wasn’t too bothered about looming repairs. After all, cars do need to be fixed sometimes. It just sucks when it’s a chunk of cash like that.
I had other fish to fry in the disdain compartment of my brain. Namely Calgary.
Yes, on Friday, mere seconds after we purchased our crooked tree from the crooked tree lot, a bit of a blizzard came upon Cowtown. I don’t know why a blizzard is called a blizzard – does it have to do with inches of snow, or more about snow plus temperatures plus crazy winds? This was more a case of the latter. Snow and wind and freakingcoldness.
On Saturday when I prepared to go to the grocery store with two of the three musketeers, our front walk had been attacked by snowdrifts. Many inches high.
I’d have to shovel (again) there was no denying it. I donned the professor’s puffy jacket that one friend described as making its wearer look like he or she had been pumped full of air. The coat is in fact so good at keeping one warm that I was literally sweating standing in line at Starbucks with my blondies.
But anyway. I pulled on the snowboots and the puffy coat. And one of the Gort’s hats. Because I couldn’t frankly find my own. ‘You look funny in that hat,’ the Gort kindly informed me. ‘Thank you’ I replied. Because what else do you say to that? ‘I didn’t say you looked nice’ he clarified.
Oh.
A look in the mirror revealed that I looked like Frances McDormand in Fargo. Which was semi-appropriate, because when I got to my van parked at the bottom of my street, I felt like I was at least an extra in the movie. Bleary landscape. White snow piled high. And my car-van was bookended by several feet on either side. Some ‘neat’ people had apparently cleared the sidewalk in front of their home….right onto my car.
Thanks!
It took a good twenty minutes to shovel and maneuver my way out of there, all while uttering a colorful array of words directed at Calgary. Perhaps that newspaper headline: ‘Calgary adds $1 million to snow removal budget’ was just a delayed April Fool’s joke?
Later in the evening I passed a police van, thoroughly stuck on the right side of the road. The next morning, we passed an abandoned city bus. Sitting diagonally in the street with its rear end firmly anchored in a huge snow drift. Hazard lights blinking pathetically.
Perhaps Santa Claus will bring me some tickets for Hawaii. Or even Alabama.
*Thanks to the other jason johnson who kindly took these photographs for me….from inside the house.
I see you sitting there
Taking your time before coming to my aid
It’s to be expected when there’s a 5 to 1 ratio
…….of employees to customers
I realize you’re busy
Sitting around, drinking your office coffee
spinning around on your ergonomic black office chairs
probably updating your facebook status
maybe even tweeting
‘woman just walked into the office…I’ll see how long I can make her wait
before steam comes out of her nose’
or is that more than the allotted 150 characters?
I don’t mind waiting the extra ten minutes, really
I’m sure my kids aren’t going berserk in the van
And my husband won’t give me the look of death
when I finally emerge from what should have been a quick errand
I’m sure he won’t say charming phrases like
‘can this day get any more fun for me‘
because watching you not help me was pretty fun
We had some friends over one Friday night, a few weeks ago. As we were sitting around, talking, we were suddenly interrupted by the sound of an alarm, coming from the coat closet.
Puzzled, they asked the obvious question: ‘what’s that noise?’
And we proceeded to explain the inexplicable. Trying our best to make a stupid story sound…less so.
Jason bought a watch from Wal-Mart, many years ago. It’s actually the only watch he hasn’t ruined with his weird magnetic arm superpowers. (Yes, for the record, the brand-new Suunto watch number two also bit the dust, about a month after he received it. I doubt we’ll contact Zappos again.)
This watch, which he never wears, has an alarm. Inexplicably, the alarm goes off on a nightly basis, at precisely 9.36pm. Even more bizarrely, we aren’t doing anything about it. We literally sit around listening to the alarm go off at the same time every night, for no apparent reason.
For starters, in order to stop the alarm, we’d have to find the watch. It’s buried in the coat closet somewhere, that much I can tell. But who wants to dig through a coat closet to find a cheap watch? Well, maybe a lot of people would so they could turn the thing off, just not us. Next, we’d have to figure out how to disable the alarm, and given the fact that it goes off at the completely random time of 9.36, I’m guessing that might not be as easy as it sounds.
And really, there’s something comforting about hearing that sound every night, no matter where I find myself in the house. I’ll stop for a minute and think, ‘oh, it’s 9.36′ and really savor that minute. It’s a benign time of day; the kids are typically asleep; I’m not. The alarm hurts no one.
But in my clumsy attempt to explain all of this, all I got were blank stares. Understandably so – it is a strange story.
Even stranger that it happened in Indiana as well. Except there, the watch was buried in the top drawer of my desk. Which sat in the living room. And the alarm went off in the middle of the day.
Old habits die hard, I guess.
The second or third day after we brought our newest addition from the hospital, I turned into my mother. I was standing in the kitchen, making coffee most likely, when I noticed a few birds perched outside on the deck.
And the first thing that popped into my head was: ‘oh, we should feed them..wouldn’t that be so fun if we fed birds on our deck?’
What?!
If it was possible to do a double take at myself, I would have, because never before had such a thought even entered my mind. When the Gort made a bird feeder at preschool, I only hung it on a tree because he was excited about it. Not because I cared about actual birds getting fed. Feeding birds is something my mother has done, for as long as I can remember. I’ve never had any interest in feeding birds, or even studying them. It’s something I associate with, dare I say it, ‘older people’.
Feeding birds, in my mind, is just one step removed from bird watching. A hobby only enjoyed by ‘old’ people. The next thing I know, l I’ll probably ask for a pair of binoculars for Christmas. And a big bird book to go along with it. A shiver ran down my spine as I processed all of this information in the nanoseconds that passed from the time I saw the birds…..to the time I took pieces of leftover waffle outside for them to eat.
Which, they didn’t.
Growing up, we had family friends who were really into bird watching. We’d go over to their house which was a rather dull place for kids to go since there were no toys. Most of the books I remember seeing in the house, dealt with birds. They talked about different kinds of birds they’d seen. I’m pretty sure they had binoculars sitting around, too. I believe they even went on ‘vacation’…and looked at birds.
It all sounded very boring to my young self: sitting around, watching birds.
But, apparently, once you hit the big 3-5…it’s what you do.
Too bad the new ‘me’ didn’t arrive when we were in the throes of the B3 name crisis. I’ll bet there are some excellent bird names for a young lad.
Sparrow?
The girl with no chart
There are people, like Brangelina, who adopt children from different countries. And then there are people, like Jasnic (that would be us), who have their children in different countries. Actually, come to think of it, Brangelina even had their biological children in different countries as well. So they have us beat on every possible front: looks, money, fame, amount of children and tattoos.
When I was in the hospital with B3, my pushy nurse kept commenting about how we’d had children in three different countries. I guess mixing things up gives me a good sense of perspective about what’s necessary and what’s extra.
I must say, I had quite a good experience with the Canadian system. The nurses in the hospital were super friendly, the facilities were perfectly good and I felt well cared for throughout the 41 weeks.
My first experience with socialized medicine was when were living in London and I was pregnant with the Gort.
In the UK (at least in 2003/2004) all prenatal care is done exclusively by midwives, unless you have a high risk pregnancy of some sort. They assign you to a group of midwives based on where you live. Since we lived in Balham at the time, I was told to report to a clinic in Streatham, which was one of the more dire medical offices I’d seen in my young life.
After my first appointment, I asked to go to a different clinic. Which also coincided with our move to Clapham South. Clinic number 2 was reminiscent of a 1960s school building. And I was kind of afraid to use the bathrooms, for they seemed a bit on the dirty side to my eyes. But the actual care seemed fine, if on the less invasive side of the spectrum. My only beef was with the midwife named Annie who, when I told her about the false labor I’d been having, condescendingly told me: ‘you won’t miss going into labor.’ Gee thanks.
Finally, I did go into labor ten days past my due date. We had to take a taxi to the hospital, seeing as we had no car, and I’d been told that parking was extremely limited, anyway. So Jason called the taxi and gave our address information. Then I called the hospital, which I’d been instructed to do. They tried to talk me out of coming, if memory serves. Maybe because I didn’t sound like I was in pain?
While I was on the phone with the hospital, the taxi driver called to say he was there. Since we didn’t answer the phone, he left. And so, with the contractions becoming more painful and closer together, Jason had to order a second taxi. For a wife who was ready to throttle him. Not that it was his fault, really.
We arrived at St. Thomas’ Hospital at about 6.30am. I’d chosen St. Thomas because they’d recently opened a brand-new birthing center, for women who opted for drug-free deliveries, and wanted to go home as quickly as possible afterwards.
The taxi driver very kindly dropped us off in front of some side entrance where I had to climb the steps to the main floor. I was not pleased. We got to the birthing center and there was no one at the reception desk. Finally, we went to ‘regular’ delivery unit where we were told that all the rooms in the birthing center were full. So they put us in a ‘regular’ delivery room until one opened up.
The nurse who admitted us put her hand on my stomach during one of the contractions. She gave me a pitying look and said: ‘[that contraction wasn't very long] it’s still going to be a long time.’ (Approximate time: 7am.)
It wasn’t terribly long before a room opened up and we were sent over to the birth center. Another midwife arrived and told us she’d be back to check on me within thirty minutes.
Jason and I were left in the room by ourselves; the only other face I recall seeing was that of the toast and tea lady, who came by to drop off some refreshment for my ‘coach’. ‘Don’t even think about it,’ I snapped at Jason as he reached for a cold piece of toast. A story that will live on in infamy along with his denying me an epidural for B3.
Meanwhile, I was being hit with contractions constantly. Maybe two minutes apart, who can remember. Finally, around 9.45am, about three hours after arriving at the hospital, I yelled at Jason to go and find someone. Anyone. A midwife named Jo showed up. She finally checked to see if I was dilated. Sure enough: 10 freaking centimeters.
Thanks a heap.
I believe the going excuse was ’shift change’. The best thing about Jo was her soothing voice. The worst thing, probably her lack of sound judgment. Seeing as she allowed me to get up after delivery/hemorrhaging to take a shower. Which means I passed out twice..in the bathroom. They put me on a gurney, and raced me to the other part of the hospital. In the process, they lost my chart. So all I had for the remainder of my stay, were a couple of pieces of paper stapled together.
They let me recover in a private room, where Jason was able to crash on the floor on a 2 inch foam mattress. Then they transferred me downstairs to the ward. With 5 or 6 other women and their babies. One of the singular worst experiences of my life. Nothing but two curtains separating me from other recovering women and their crying babies. And various people coming in at all hours to check on me or ask questions, right when I’d finally doze off to sleep. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.
One rather nice perk…after you have the baby, midwives come to your house to check on you and the new addition. So you don’t have to schlep a brand-new baby to a clinic, wearing yourself out in the process.
Another nice perk…no medical bills.
Dear Chevy Venture
Our two month anniversary is approaching fast. I realize we didn’t exactly give you a warm welcome that Thursday evening in June when you became ours. But you have to realize, we never wanted you. We were certain we’d get through life without succumbing to the likes of you.
And we failed. Or the auto world failed us. Or our budget and vague environmental consciousness failed us. No matter, you’re ours now.
I have to say, I don’t feel a great connection to you. Were it not for the blue Indiana plates at the back, I’m quite sure I couldn’t even pick you out of a minivan line-up. And I pride myself on having a reasonable eye for detail. Twice now, we’ve found ourselves leaving church and walking to someone else’s beige (is that really your color?) Chevy Venture. That’s never happened to me before.
But your lack of aesthetics aside, I’ve come to appreciate a few things about you.
Your sliding doors. I always knew that I would love to have sliding doors, and I do.
Your ‘park aid’ - the beeping noise you make when I’m about to hit a curb or a car when I’m in reverse? What a useful, if slightly confusing feature. I wish you could produce one type of beep for hitting a curb and another kind of beep for hitting a parked car. Because frankly, I’m not as concerned with backing into a curb. (Shh, don’t tell my husband.)
But perhaps you could benefit from some sort of warning feature, alerting drivers when the park aid has been turned off by a rambunctious 2 year old with fast fingers. I had many near misses one week, as I confidently almost-backed into parked cars, fully expecting your beep to save me from blundering. I kept thinking ‘wow, I feel like I’m really close to that car….but the van isn’t beeping, so I must be okay.’ Somehow I don’t think my insurance company would have understood.
Your power steering. Aside from your gargantuan-ness, you are surprisingly easy to parallel park. People have actually complimented me on my ‘Chicago-style ability’…little do they know!
And then….there’s the cargo space. Since you became ours we have:
- driven from Indiana to Calgary, loading you to the gills with baby clothes, maternity clothes, other baby paraphernalia and a boy’s bicycle.
- picked up an IKEA desk, and two dressers and a small bookcase from a Craigslist benefactor.
- picked up a king-sized bed from another Craigslist benefactor
- picked up a crib, a changing table and a double stroller from a friend
None of these situations would have been possible in our former station wagon.
And for that we are most grateful to you. Regardless, you should know that if Jason ever gets a chance to appear on Top Gear, he will deny your existence.
It’s nothing personal.
Well, yes it is.
Yours…..reluctantly,
Nicola
The condition of pregnancy invites input from strangers unlike most other physical conditions.
I was dropping off my oldest at a vacation Bible school last week, at a friend’s church, when a lovely Asian woman approached me. She asked me a question about the service times and I explained I didn’t actually attend the church. She started to walk past me but when she caught sight of my gut, she stopped in her tracks. ‘God bless you,’ she said and grabbed my hand. Seconds later she announced with tremendous self-assurance: ‘I think you are going to have a boy.’
I smiled and told her ‘yes, I am going to have a boy.’ Unsure if she’d understood me correctly, she clarified: ‘the doctor has told you this?’ And I assured her that it was, in fact, confirmed by those in the medical world that my next child would be a boy. She looked at the Hen and said: ‘your second boy?’
‘No, third boy,’ I informed her, ‘God bless me,’ I added, chuckling to show I was kidding (sort of). Because that’s just the witty kind of individual I am.
I’d had a similar run-in at Starbucks of all places around the 23rd week of pregnancy. I was paying for my Caramel Macchiato when the two women standing in line behind me engaged me in conversation. ‘Are you expecting,’ they asked politely, careful not to commit the worst faux pas of humankind: asking a non-pregnant woman if she’s pregnant. ‘Yes,’ I assured them. ‘We think you’re about 23 weeks along, are we right?’ At which point I was quite relieved, because if they’d guessed 30 weeks, I would have been crushed.
They weren’t done with their prognosticating, either. ‘We think you’re having a boy,’ they confided. As if they had some sort of insider information.
Since they were on such a psychic roll, I decided to press the issue. ‘The baby’s due in August,’ I shared, ‘any thoughts on when he might actually make an appearance?’ They thought for a second. ‘I’m kind of feeling the 14th,’ the one woman decided.
It was one of the better stranger-pregnancy conversations I’d had. Usually my pregnancy-related conversations go something like this: ‘due any day now, huh?’ or, my personal favorite, ‘when’s your due date again – end of July?’ ‘Um, no, I probably have about 4 weeks to go,’ I inevitably reply.
Knowing full well it will be closer to six.
It’s red and white (and blue) week this week, what with Canada Day and Independence Day just three days apart. Being a (pseudo) Canadian is a really perplexing thing – why is it so similar to America? The money is pretty much the same, the chain restaurants and shops are the same, they even have Thanksgiving (a month earlier, mind you) and a faux Independence Day’, though as Jason loves to point out: they’re not independent.
I flew to Montreal in the fall of 2000 (this is PRE 9-11, I should add). I had the audacity to fly without a passport. My rationale was that if one could drive across the Canadian border by simply showing a driver’s license, why should flying be any different? I tried to explain this to the customs officer who detained me. (Apparently I have a history of problems with customs officers.) ‘You wouldn’t fly to Paris without a passport, would you?’ the officer asked, dumbfounded at my stupidity. ‘Well, no,’ I wanted to say. ‘Because France is clearly a different country. Canada is only sort of a different country.’ But those are the kinds of responses that get you in trouble. So I just tried to look sincerely sorry and sincerely disinterested in ever defecting to Canada. And, luckily, I was released to enjoy a girls’ weekend with my mom and sister. Lesson learned.
So, as I was driving along the streets of Canada the other day, reflecting on the whole Canada Day-Independence Day conundrum, it occurred to me that I probably won’t hear the personification-of-Independence-Day song ‘God Bless the USA’ (or is it called Proud to be an American) this year. Which, despite having fond memories of singing as a fresh immigrant in 7th grade choir conducted by the very patriotic Miss Carolus, I’m not necessarily attached to. But it’s still a fact worth noting.
Thus, in honor of this week of patriotic celebrations, I’ve created my own version of the infamous chorus. Eschewing patriotic references. Because much as I love America and Canada, I’m not one for wearing flag t-shirts, or dressing up in red, white (and blue). Or putting little flags on my toenails for a patriotic pedicure.
It’s not of the same calibre as some of my other truly outstanding songs, in fact it may be the worst one yet, but I put it together in about 3 minutes. And it focuses on something we can all get behind – whether Canadian or American – dessert.
And I’m proud to be a North American
where at least the sweets roam free
there is pie and cake with whip-ped cream
e’en for those with a gluten allergy
and i’ll gladly stand up, next to you
for a second helping, too
cuz there ain’t no doubt i love pastry
God bless this continent
My back is sore, my legs are sore. My eyes hurt, my vision is blurry and my wrists ache. As anyone who has ever been in the throes of a computer game addiction will know, it can be painful. My optometrist asked me the other night if I’d noticed any changes in my vision. I’m pretty sure he wasn’t referring to my newfound inability to focus due to prolonged playing of Bejeweled Blitz.
The problem is threefold, really. Mostly I just like dumb computer games – the kind at which zoo monkeys could beat me. Tetris, Jewelbox, Bejeweled. And obsessive playing of these games usually coincides with the later stages of pregnancy, for me. When I was pregnant with Mr. G, I asked one of Jason’s grad school friends to ‘challenge’ me on Bejeweled on a near nightly basis, because I’d exhausted my rights to the free online version. The only way for me to keep playing (free of charge) was for someone to invite me to a game. Even if they ditched me halfway through. And, frankly, Chau always ditched me since he could easily double or triple my pathetic score. With his mouse clicking hand tied behind his back.
So recently, while wasting some time on Facebook, I noticed many of my ‘friends’ were playing Bejeweled Blitz. A one minute, fast version of the game I played five years ago. I held off for several days, knowing it would only get ugly. But one night, bored and desperate, I caved. And just like that, I was hooked. And then, when I noticed my friend Jenny was ahead of me in the standings of the weekly tournament….well that was all the incentive I needed to spend the bulk of a day trying to improve my game.
I consider it cruel irony that I was able to come within 1300 points of her high score (88,500 to her 89,800) today. To come so close and still not beat her? That’s the ultimate in dissatisfaction.
My innate competitiveness very slightly exceeds the third aspect of my addiction: my apparent need for positive reinforcement. In my house, I just don’t get a lot of it. I asked Jason if he liked the strawberry pie I made yesterday. For a Canada Day potluck gathering. He responded: ‘yeah’. Yeah, isn’t exactly an enthusiastic response; nor is it indicative of any pleasure received from eating such a caloric piece of pie. But that’s Jason for you. ‘Yeah’ may very well mean ‘it’s the best piece of freaking pie I’ve ever had.’ Or ‘I’ve had better.’ Who knows.
But the voiceover guy from the Bejeweled Blitz game, is, or was, quick with the reinforcement I apparently crave. The game starts out with a ‘go’ which is particularly cute when parroted by my not quite two year old. And, as the jewels start disappearing, my announcer friend becomes more positive. ‘Good’ he’ll exclaim monotonously followed by ‘excellent’ and, if you’re really good…. ‘incredible.’
I might be more hooked on having my playing labeled ‘incredible’ than the game itself. Unfortunately, there was a long streak of games where I performed rather poorly, and the best my man friend would do for me was toss out a ‘good’. There may have been an ‘excellent’ thrown in occasionally, but there was no ‘incredible’ to be found. Anywhere. I started playing game, after game, hoping to improve my score so I could hear just one more ‘incredible’ but it’s as if he was purposely avoiding the word. The well of positivity had run dry.
So with tired eyes, and bad posture, I had to call it a day. That, and it was near the boys’ bed-time. And I felt like the world’s worst human being.
Funny thing is, Jason started out rolling his eyes at my newfound obsession, coming close to suggesting I was lesser-than for wasting my time in such a useless manner. And yet…the other night, as I was – yes – playing Bejeweled Blitz, I heard a familiar noise. It was him, sitting at the dining room table. Playing the same game on his laptop.
My announcer guy’s voice was a dead give away.
Friday Update: I’d made it all the way to 4.30pm today before logging on to play a game. Rather impressive, I thought. But, when I logged on, all that popped up was this message:
There was a major fire at Bejeweled Blitz’s server hosting facility last night. We would like to say that the heat of everybody’s gem swapping burned up the servers, but unfortunately in this case it was an actual fire.
Bejeweled Blitz will not be available until the damage is cleaned up and generators are brought in to restore power. Our current estimate is that we will be back up later tonight (Seattle Time).
When the game does come back up, you may notice that some of your friends’ scores from this week appear to have been erased. Don’t worry — all scores are safe and secure in our database, and they will start to show correctly as you and your friends visit the game.
Thanks for playing Bejeweled Blitz. We are working very hard to get the game up and running for you as soon as possible, and we appreciate your patience.
I can’t help but feel that I have incredibly bad luck as of late.
Less than two months to go until the estimated arrival date for baby boy 3. Given my record of holding babies hostage in my uterus, I’m fully expecting it to be a week or two beyond that. But, even with the ‘extra time’ I’m finding it a little stressful that we haven’t fully resolved the name issue. And by ‘fully’ I mean our positions haven’t changed since I last posted on the matter. So, seeing as we haven’t arrived at any other acceptable alternatives, I’ve decided to name this one ‘goodness’ or, at least, ‘tranquility’ in hopes that it would be a self fulfilling prophesy. I don’t think this family can handle a 5th strong personality.
According to babycenter, Mr. Tranquil Goodness weighs over 3 lbs and is 16 inches long. Which already feels pretty big, frankly. And he’s only going to get (a lot) bigger. This time around, when I hit the 30 week mark, I wept silently that the end wasn’t really in sight. Two months to go – that’s a long time. That much I’ve learned from pregnancies 1 and 2.
I vividly recall being at a doctor’s appointment when I was pregnant with my oldest. ‘I only have 9 weeks to go,’ I breezily informed the grumpy physician. ‘That’s still a long time,’ he replied. And he was right. Especially when it turned out to be nearly 11 more weeks before the esteemed Mr. G graced us with his presence.
In an attempt to make up for some pregnant partner deficiencies, Jason has tried to be proactive on the name matter this week.
I mean, I wasn’t necessarily offended when he inferred I was 36 weeks along. Instead of 31. I know he knows when the baby’s due. It’s just that I figured by the 3rd time around he’d actually know the number of weeks in a typical pregnancy. And he still doesn’t.
And then he got an email from a soon to be first-time dad. Who spent a couple of sentences talking about all the nice things he was doing for his wife. I can’t recall exactly, but I’m pretty sure there were massages and ice/heat packs and foot rubs and a few other things. I guess the fact that none of those things is happening chez Johnson makes me low maintenance. Or.
So in an effort to rise to the occasion Jason’s taken it upon himself to resolve the name issue. ‘Let’s get this name thing figured out,’ he announced on Sunday night. He asked if my feelings towards our ‘back-up’ name had changed. They hadn’t. Not discernibly. ‘What about Randy, or Lance’ he suggested. This would be why our name discussions go nowhere. No offense to Randy Quaid or Lance Armstrong, but those just aren’t names that speak to me. And that’s putting it very nicely.
We turned to the name bible, and decided to utilize its randomized name generator tool. Perhaps not surprisingly, we didn’t fall in love with the likes of Dubrovnik or Havel. Then we searched names by ‘meaning’ using words like ‘goodness, wise, and kind.’ Our pitiful attempt to ensure baby three will be a mellow one. But alas there were no good names on those lists, either.
Periodically I’ll ask my oldest what he would like to name the baby. For a long time he’s been stuck on ‘Mats’, but the other night he came up with a new name: Bennett. When I reminded him that Bennett just so ‘happens’ to be the name of his cousin, he seemed nonplussed. ‘If we say Bennett, how will the babies know which one we’re calling,’ I inquired. ‘Well, we’ll know which one is ours,’ he explained. Duh. ‘Yeah, but they won’t know who we’re talking to,’ I tried to explain. Duh. When that explanation didn’t make the desired impression, I resorted to: ‘Your Auntie will be really mad if we name our baby Bennett too.’ Not to mention it would be kind of pathetic. He didn’t seem to care.
In lieu of other ‘right-sounding’ options, Jason came up with two strategies: name baby three ‘Jason’ and find a new name for himself. (Maybe Angus?) Or, take the Hen’s middle name – which we’ve always been fond of – and bestow it upon baby 3. And then give the Hen a new middle name. Alternatively, he suggested changing a letter in the Hen’s current middle name and giving THAT to boy 3. One boy named Jasper and the other Jesper?
Hand me down clothes is one thing, but hand me down names?
