Bee and I go to the pool most afternoons, she in a baby-sized swimsuit dotted with cherries and I in a perhaps overly-modest tankini-swimskirt thing more suitable for an older gal -- but it's a step up from the maternity swimsuit I was safety-pinning to myself despite weighing less now than before I was pregnant. (Yeah, the sight of me in that maternity suit was just pitiful. Fortunately for everyone, Ben went down into the cellar boxes and dug out the tankini-swimskirt thing for me after an evening of listening to me complain about not being able to find my pre-pregnancy bathing suit. I'm very happy to have it back, but I do wonder why I bought such a reserved suit back in my roaring twenties, when I was so young and skinny! I should have been more ostentatious, clearly.)
So, anyway, yes, Bee and are doing this mommy-and-baby-at-the-pool thing all summer, and I kind of love it. She enjoys playing (and shrieking) in the water, and I like getting out of the house and talking to other humans. Actually, I kind of wish this summer could last forever.
In other summertime news, Bee's grandparents are visiting us this week, and the baby seems to really appreciate that we have bolstered the number of available personnel. There are more laps to sit in, more faces to watch, more adult-sized fingers to cut teeth upon (ow). There's also A DOG OMG A DOG!, by whom Bee is utterly transfixed. (She won't remember our dog, who went to pup heaven* when Bee was just two or three months old.) Anyway, our handsome little visitor is quite a good and pleasant little dog, but he once had his beard yanked (by Bee) during a previous visit to our home, and that harrowing experience seems to be frozen, vividly, in his mind. You really can't blame him, and the put-upon creature now steers utterly clear of Bee -- who, of course, would prefer that the pup come within beard-pulling distance. She gesticulates wildly around the dog, calls out a variation on his name ("Dooo!"), and observes longingly his nervous canine activities and one-eye-open sofa-naps.
What else, what else? Well, there's this nice thing: one recent hot afternoon, my wonderful mother-in-law and I went shopping, then stopped to drink iced coffees in a cafe, with Bee in tow, and I almost felt, for the first time since Bee was born, like a normal person -- and not an inmate at an Iranian prison operated by a hungry, sleepless baby. The trip involved a car ride that went pretty well, and then, later that day, I took Bee swimming with a friend who has a little girl just a bit older than Bee. It was a glorious, happy, fun summer day, and I vowed to pack more of those into our remaining weeks of summer. I will! I shall! I must!
* After being bad-mouthed by me all over the world wide interwebz during my pregnancy. Rest in peace, pooch.
Showing posts with label naming. Show all posts
Showing posts with label naming. Show all posts
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Friday, July 22, 2011
Ne plus ultra
I've done some calculations with the available data, and I’m pretty sure Ben is the Cadillac, as they say, of husbands. Forgive my boast, but as far I can tell (and I’ve been watching him closely for close to a decade), this guy is the Sistine Chapel, Beethoven’s Fifth, the Hope diamond, and that ancient sequoia in California that they call the General. He asks for so little, gives a lot, works crazy hard, and shows his love for Bee and me in a thousand ways.
Lest you believe I’m purposely shorting you, Dear Reader, on the real details of what makes my fella so special: it suffices to say that the man is honorable, compassionate, and brilliant; in fact, he is the most honorable, compassionate, and brilliant person I know. Because Ben is who he is, I endeavor to be a better me. There! Now you know some things about my guy, and about me, too.
Anyhow, Ben's sensational enough that I’m occasionally inclined to wonder what keeps him around, to tell you the truth. It’s certainly not my financial prospects, my housekeeping, or my hearty good health. Because… it just isn’t. Oh, wait, it has to be my rainbowy disposition every morning! Except that I’m a colossal bitch before having my coffee. (Welcome to EVERY MORNING FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE, sweet husband. I'm sorry!)
So, to summarize, I’m both messy and grumpy, I accidentally break stuff all the time, I lose things (including, on one infamous occasion, an expensive thing), I get sick a lot, I spend our money on yarn while he hesitates even to buy shoes for himself, and, if I may exaggerate slightly, I owe a million dollars on student loans. Also, I’m pretty lazy.
So, see what I mean? Don’t get me wrong, I’m told I have my splendid qualities, but, really, I can take me or leave me. But Ben – there’s a personage I can really get behind!
Bee, of course, loves both of us devotedly. But she, like her mom, appears to worship the ground Ben walks on. It is sweet, Dear Reader, to witness! She grins open-mouthedly and ear-to-ear when Ben gets home from work, gazes at him with pure delight, and chatters with her papa in a joyous language only the two of them comprehend. And have I mentioned that Bee has spoken her first word*? Although I've been joking (because I am hilarious) that she is actually referring to her favorite nihilistic art movement, it has become very, very clear that when Bee says “Dada,” she means Ben. And as one of the people who have taken care of this baby since she came into the world, I’m amazed and fascinated by the creature’s ability to produce an actual word, with, you know, an actual meaning that she understands and intends. Not baby babble (although she does lots of that, of course), but a word: a verbal and conceptual representation of a thing (and in this case, a person).** She labors so hard to get all the parts of that little pink mouth into the right position to create the sounds. To hear her produce the word “dada” as she looked into her dad’s eyes (once in particular, last week – the first time I was convinced of the true word-ness of her first word) was, Reader, one of my most breathtaking parenting experiences so far – a zenith.
* It's on the early side, but we're convinced. Doubt if you must.
** Speaking of language and semiotics, we have been using a few signs with Bee since around six months, but it's not clear whether she's picking up on them. She might recognize some of the signs, but hasn't used them herself, as far as we've noticed.
Lest you believe I’m purposely shorting you, Dear Reader, on the real details of what makes my fella so special: it suffices to say that the man is honorable, compassionate, and brilliant; in fact, he is the most honorable, compassionate, and brilliant person I know. Because Ben is who he is, I endeavor to be a better me. There! Now you know some things about my guy, and about me, too.
Anyhow, Ben's sensational enough that I’m occasionally inclined to wonder what keeps him around, to tell you the truth. It’s certainly not my financial prospects, my housekeeping, or my hearty good health. Because… it just isn’t. Oh, wait, it has to be my rainbowy disposition every morning! Except that I’m a colossal bitch before having my coffee. (Welcome to EVERY MORNING FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE, sweet husband. I'm sorry!)
So, to summarize, I’m both messy and grumpy, I accidentally break stuff all the time, I lose things (including, on one infamous occasion, an expensive thing), I get sick a lot, I spend our money on yarn while he hesitates even to buy shoes for himself, and, if I may exaggerate slightly, I owe a million dollars on student loans. Also, I’m pretty lazy.
So, see what I mean? Don’t get me wrong, I’m told I have my splendid qualities, but, really, I can take me or leave me. But Ben – there’s a personage I can really get behind!
Bee, of course, loves both of us devotedly. But she, like her mom, appears to worship the ground Ben walks on. It is sweet, Dear Reader, to witness! She grins open-mouthedly and ear-to-ear when Ben gets home from work, gazes at him with pure delight, and chatters with her papa in a joyous language only the two of them comprehend. And have I mentioned that Bee has spoken her first word*? Although I've been joking (because I am hilarious) that she is actually referring to her favorite nihilistic art movement, it has become very, very clear that when Bee says “Dada,” she means Ben. And as one of the people who have taken care of this baby since she came into the world, I’m amazed and fascinated by the creature’s ability to produce an actual word, with, you know, an actual meaning that she understands and intends. Not baby babble (although she does lots of that, of course), but a word: a verbal and conceptual representation of a thing (and in this case, a person).** She labors so hard to get all the parts of that little pink mouth into the right position to create the sounds. To hear her produce the word “dada” as she looked into her dad’s eyes (once in particular, last week – the first time I was convinced of the true word-ness of her first word) was, Reader, one of my most breathtaking parenting experiences so far – a zenith.
* It's on the early side, but we're convinced. Doubt if you must.
** Speaking of language and semiotics, we have been using a few signs with Bee since around six months, but it's not clear whether she's picking up on them. She might recognize some of the signs, but hasn't used them herself, as far as we've noticed.
Friday, May 27, 2011
Mon petit chou
Straightaway, let me reveal that my daughter has a Cabbage Patch Kid name.
This is a subject I’d been looking forward to exploring when I foisted last week’s post on you (remember, the rigorous and intellectually stimulating epistle on the subject of library storytime for babies?), but I ran out of time, and my tale was already getting longish. So today my theme will receive its due attention.
The subject, dear Reader, is names.
Specifically, baby names. A certain genre of name, you know, is prevalent among Bee’s immediate peers. Usually old-fashioned, often elegant or literary, and certainly never plain, these sweet, quirky names are generally not as far afield as, say, the unfathomable Gertrude, but are significantly off-center of Emma. I’m talking about, for example, Astrid and Finnegan. And Hattie, and Eleanor, and Pearl. Not everyone’s cup of tea, maybe, but, what can I say, I find these names adorable. Ben and I refer to them as Cabbage Patch Kid* names, and have noticed that the parents of babies of Bee’s age and socio-economic-cultural group tend to embrace them.
In fact, it was at library storytime, surrounded by tiny Mabels and Hazels and Archies, that the prevalence of these pretty, heirloom-y names first became clear to me; all those Astrids and Henrys and Violets and Stellas make you feel like you’re perusing 1933 census data. And I appreciate and approve of these antique names, having given my own daughter an indisputable Cabbage Patch Kid name that shall not be divulged herein. (I know, believe it or not, her legal name is not actually Bumblebee Carrot-flower, as I may have implied elsewhere in the archives.)
Ben and I chose Bee’s name because it’s pretty, it’s distinctive but not (in our opinion) weird, it’s thousands of years old (and ancient is even cooler than old-fashioned!), and it’s rife with potential nicknames in case our girl wants to shorten it. And I’ll say right now that reactions to Bee’s name tend to range from genuine delight, to confused surprise, to resigned silence. Sometimes strangers even chuckle, although I’m never sure what’s so funny. I can’t imagine what kind of reactions the brave, long-suffering parents of Henriettas and Ursulas encounter each day.
What do you think, dear Readers? Did you (or shall you) give your little one a Cabbage Patch Kid name?
* Xavier Roberts famously gathered the names for his CPK dolls from a 1930s book of baby names, and I hereby dedicate this footnote to Cabbage Patch Kids I have known: Bronwyn Janet, Jocelyn Ardra, and Clarissa Edina.
.
Sunday, January 02, 2011
Parties & babies & sleep,
plus a Small Victory
Ben and I took Bee to a record-breaking two parties yesterday (our previous record being zero). For introverts like us, attending two New Year's Day get-togethers seemed like a fairly formidable enterprise -- especially because one was a potluck and we barely have time to make one nutritious evening meal for ourselves over here these days, much less put together something elegant, delicious, and portable for forty neighbors. So, for the first time ever, Ben and I were the people who came to the potluck and Didn't Bring Anything! But that was the second shindig, and I'd like to blog about the first one: the baby party!
It was attended by six couples and seven extremely cute babies. I know you want to know the babies' names, so here they are. (Don't ask me what the adults' names were.)
Cutie-babies:
Violet
Zoe
Amelia
Jasper
Alia
Calvin
Our girl, whom I've been calling Bee in this blog, was in good company among this crew of kids with simultaneously antiquated and modern monikers -- this being, of course, the aesthetic of choice when it comes to naming one's child in 2010, if one is of the socioeconomic class into which Ben and I fall. What can I say, I like this genre of name too.* Edith, Astrid, Esme... bring it on! At least there weren't any Gertrudes. I don't think the aesthetic goes so far as to include that one.
Bee proved herself a party animal like her 'rents by snoring through the entirety of both parties. Although, wait, she did awake briefly at the baby party to seek nourishment, and was the object of admiration by other parents due to the ease with which she breastfeeds... and I have to admit that Bee is kind of a champ at that.** Those other babies were more or less a mess when it came to eating -- unable to latch on consistently, fussed while eating, and generally didn't seem to know what they were doing (come on, babies! get it together!). Anyway, Ben and I certainly didn't show up looking to compare our baby to all those sweet Zoes and Calvins, but if I'm honest -- we did come away thinking, "well, at least we have that going for us."
But we've got our own special blend of chaos over here, believe me. Bee doesn't sleep the way we are given to understand that other babies sleep. Yeah, not even close. Desiring comradery and reassurance, I keep hoping to meet a set of parents who say, "Yes, our baby also insists on being held all the time or she won't sleep!" -- or, "Yes, as soon as our baby's butt touches the bassinet or crib mattress her eyes fly open and she acts like she just drank a double tall Americano!" But instead, when we describe Bee's need to sleep only in our arms, we just get shocked, sympathetic expressions of "That's horrible!"
Unwilling to let Bee cry it out,*** Ben and I have just been going with the flow. Our girl is still so young, and she needs what she needs. If one of the things she needs is the warmth and comfort of a parent holding her while she sleeps, well, I'm Mommy, and providing warmth and comfort is one of my jobs. (The parts of the job involving helping her develop her independence can be put into action when she's not eight weeks old, for Pete's sake. That's how I feel about it.) And she does sleep all night, just not without one of us (or her grandma, during grandma's glorious recent visit) holding her in our arms.
Here's what I hope and think is on the horizon. I think that Bee will slowly start feeling able to sleep by herself as she gets bigger, and that the comfort and love we are giving her in this early, difficult stage are only going to ensure that she trusts us and always feels safe -- which I hope will help her begin sleeping on her own. And, good news! Last night she slept alone in her crib for almost two hours!
Left: Party clothes! Bee wears a pants-and-tunic get-up instead of footed pajamas for the first time ever.
* Although we didn't quite go that route...
** You don't gain half a pound a week by not knowing how to eat comme il faut! Also, I discovered that not all moms can devour a complete meal with their left hand while nursing, something I can now do in my sleep (and likely have).
*** Ah, good old crying it out, known on the interwebs as "CIO" -- because there's nothing like an all-caps acronym to create the illusion that this is actually a legitimate technique.
It was attended by six couples and seven extremely cute babies. I know you want to know the babies' names, so here they are. (Don't ask me what the adults' names were.)
Cutie-babies:
Violet
Zoe
Amelia
Jasper
Alia
Calvin
Our girl, whom I've been calling Bee in this blog, was in good company among this crew of kids with simultaneously antiquated and modern monikers -- this being, of course, the aesthetic of choice when it comes to naming one's child in 2010, if one is of the socioeconomic class into which Ben and I fall. What can I say, I like this genre of name too.* Edith, Astrid, Esme... bring it on! At least there weren't any Gertrudes. I don't think the aesthetic goes so far as to include that one.
Bee proved herself a party animal like her 'rents by snoring through the entirety of both parties. Although, wait, she did awake briefly at the baby party to seek nourishment, and was the object of admiration by other parents due to the ease with which she breastfeeds... and I have to admit that Bee is kind of a champ at that.** Those other babies were more or less a mess when it came to eating -- unable to latch on consistently, fussed while eating, and generally didn't seem to know what they were doing (come on, babies! get it together!). Anyway, Ben and I certainly didn't show up looking to compare our baby to all those sweet Zoes and Calvins, but if I'm honest -- we did come away thinking, "well, at least we have that going for us."
But we've got our own special blend of chaos over here, believe me. Bee doesn't sleep the way we are given to understand that other babies sleep. Yeah, not even close. Desiring comradery and reassurance, I keep hoping to meet a set of parents who say, "Yes, our baby also insists on being held all the time or she won't sleep!" -- or, "Yes, as soon as our baby's butt touches the bassinet or crib mattress her eyes fly open and she acts like she just drank a double tall Americano!" But instead, when we describe Bee's need to sleep only in our arms, we just get shocked, sympathetic expressions of "That's horrible!"
Unwilling to let Bee cry it out,*** Ben and I have just been going with the flow. Our girl is still so young, and she needs what she needs. If one of the things she needs is the warmth and comfort of a parent holding her while she sleeps, well, I'm Mommy, and providing warmth and comfort is one of my jobs. (The parts of the job involving helping her develop her independence can be put into action when she's not eight weeks old, for Pete's sake. That's how I feel about it.) And she does sleep all night, just not without one of us (or her grandma, during grandma's glorious recent visit) holding her in our arms.
Here's what I hope and think is on the horizon. I think that Bee will slowly start feeling able to sleep by herself as she gets bigger, and that the comfort and love we are giving her in this early, difficult stage are only going to ensure that she trusts us and always feels safe -- which I hope will help her begin sleeping on her own. And, good news! Last night she slept alone in her crib for almost two hours!
Left: Party clothes! Bee wears a pants-and-tunic get-up instead of footed pajamas for the first time ever.* Although we didn't quite go that route...
** You don't gain half a pound a week by not knowing how to eat comme il faut! Also, I discovered that not all moms can devour a complete meal with their left hand while nursing, something I can now do in my sleep (and likely have).
*** Ah, good old crying it out, known on the interwebs as "CIO" -- because there's nothing like an all-caps acronym to create the illusion that this is actually a legitimate technique.
Labels:
clothes,
get-togethers,
holiday,
little girl,
naming,
pals,
parenting,
sleep,
tired
1 comments
Friday, July 09, 2010
Untranslatable
"Proper names are poetry in the raw. Like all poetry they are untranslatable." --Auden
Although we've decided to keep the baby's name to ourselves until she joins us in the outside world, Ben and I are enjoying being able to refer to our girl by name. (She just kicked me as I typed that.)
As I've mentioned elsewhere in the archives, we'd probably still be at the drawing board had we learned that we were having a boy. Don't get me wrong, we would have been just as overjoyed to get that news, but we didn't have a name waiting in the wings, and Ben wasn't convinced about either of the only two boys' names I find acceptable -- so, in that regard, we got off a little easy.
The process of choosing a name is such a funny and onerous one. Early on, I provided my husbeau with a verbal outpouring of the many girls' names I'd been filing away since approximately the age of 20: Esme, Willa, and Winifred, for example. Nodding politely, Ben came back with names like -- wait for it --
Caitlin.
Stunned into silence, I felt quite sure that my normally pensive, sweet, and brilliant spouse was either pulling my chain or putting absolutely no thought into this... otherwise, how could he insult me by suggesting a name like Caitlin? Who was this man I married?! And how were we ever going to reconcile our two vastly different naming aesthetics? But, you know, in the face of the tribulation that was Caitlin, I concealed my "that is never going to happen" expression (as he kindly did when I proposed Minerva). And honest to god, before long we came across a genre of name -- and, indeed, a specific name! -- that somehow met with emphatic approval by both of us. It kind of happened out of the blue, taking both of us a little by surprise, and we basically shook on it right there and then. And so our girl has a name.
Although we've decided to keep the baby's name to ourselves until she joins us in the outside world, Ben and I are enjoying being able to refer to our girl by name. (She just kicked me as I typed that.)
As I've mentioned elsewhere in the archives, we'd probably still be at the drawing board had we learned that we were having a boy. Don't get me wrong, we would have been just as overjoyed to get that news, but we didn't have a name waiting in the wings, and Ben wasn't convinced about either of the only two boys' names I find acceptable -- so, in that regard, we got off a little easy.
The process of choosing a name is such a funny and onerous one. Early on, I provided my husbeau with a verbal outpouring of the many girls' names I'd been filing away since approximately the age of 20: Esme, Willa, and Winifred, for example. Nodding politely, Ben came back with names like -- wait for it --
Caitlin.
Stunned into silence, I felt quite sure that my normally pensive, sweet, and brilliant spouse was either pulling my chain or putting absolutely no thought into this... otherwise, how could he insult me by suggesting a name like Caitlin? Who was this man I married?! And how were we ever going to reconcile our two vastly different naming aesthetics? But, you know, in the face of the tribulation that was Caitlin, I concealed my "that is never going to happen" expression (as he kindly did when I proposed Minerva). And honest to god, before long we came across a genre of name -- and, indeed, a specific name! -- that somehow met with emphatic approval by both of us. It kind of happened out of the blue, taking both of us a little by surprise, and we basically shook on it right there and then. And so our girl has a name.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Pregnant, in a cute apron
In just a few days, Ben and I will find out the sex of our baby! We're dying to know, not so that we can paint the nursery or buy a bunch of dumb gender-specific onesies or whatever, but because there's just so little to be known about this little creature right now! We want to know whatever can be told to us! It will be fun to start calling her by her name* -- or to get busy coming up with a name for him.**
* Although we are keeping the names a surprise for everyone else until The Big Day.
** Why are boys' names so difficult to come up with? Everyone seems to think so. I'd love to have a son, but what on earth are we going to call him? (I can tell you what we're not going to call him.)
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