A Rose by any other Name...

Naming someone else's baby is a whole lot of fun. I've spent oodles of nights poring over the pages of quirky baby naming books and sifting through crazy Name Nerd websites creating creative and odd and wonderful lists of names both for actual suggestions as well as for entertainment. Naming someone else's child feels consequent-free to the name-suggester.

When it comes to naming our future Peron, I hadn't really spent as much enthusiasm or energy because:
a) We don't even know if it's a girl or a boy yet
b) It still feels really early
c) It took Mark and I an excruciatingly long time to pick out our wedding dishes at The Bay; I anticipate this might be a bumpy journey

But today, my friend Mao left a little something in my work mailbox which made me laugh. He carefully cut out an article from the Toronto Star (in two separate pieces from two separate pages) on naming your child.

http://www.thestar.com/article/432419

It mentions the weightiness of the decision (duh) and how having a really cool and hip and strong name can affect a person's life. I think cool and hip are relative to the cultural popularity trends of the time, so it's kind of silly to worry too much about that. However, I did find a few other points interesting. Someone named Lansky has come up with a rating scale for rating names. It is based on six categories (with a possible highest rating of six stars):

1. First impression (yes, but whose?)
2. Gender clarity (apparently, gender-neutral names are good for girls but not for boys)
3. Popularity trends (Do you want the way weird name or the way too trendy name?)
4. Risk of misspelling (Not an issue if you name your kid Apple)
5. Risk of mispronunciation (Also not an issue if you name your kid Apple)
6. Versatility (A name that can change as you mature, so for instance, Bambi or Kitty doesn't seem very versatile to me)

The article begs the question, would Brad Pitt be just as sexy if he was named Maynard? I'll just let you chew on that one for a while because I don't have the answer.

What I do know is that Mao offered a wonderful list of name suggestions (our first list of suggested names actually), and I wanted to share them with you.

First of all, he notes, Greek, Roman and Norse gods are hot this year. Also double initials are hot.

Moby Dick Peron
Viola Cello Peron
Cletus Bobert Peron
Julio Iglesias Peron
Caesar Martini Peron
Venus Aphrodite Peron
Ottavio Octavius Peron (O.O. Peron)
Ryanne Butler Peron (for a girl)
Ryan Butler Peron (for a boy)
Estrella Freya Hespera Peron
Bailey Dublin Peron
Georgia Peach Peron
Isis Peron
Rainbow Peron
Matthew Alan Peron (M.A.P. and shameless self-promotion)
Coco Crisps Peron
Virgil Winslow Peron
Peter Parker Peron
Princess Peach Peron
Mario Luigi Peron
Jupiter Apollo Peron
Zolten Zeus Peron (Z.Z. Peron) Mao has reserved the rights to this one for his first-born
Moxie Crimefighter Peron (my second favourite name)

and B.P.'s new in-utero nickname because I love it so much...

Tiberius Thor Peron

Thank you, Mao.

Why?

This morning, I went to have a chat with my friend Mao. Mao is brilliant and often times has been known to have a “man-of-few-words” style about him. We chatted for a little bit and then as I was leaving, he suddenly asked, “Um, why are you carrying a baby for ten months?”

That one question could actually be so many questions. The answers were numerous. I wasn’t sure if he was looking for, “Well, when a woman and a man love each other…” or perhaps, “There once was an unfertilized ovum…” Maybe what he really wanted was, “Mark said he didn’t want to do it.”

Finally, I realized he was asking, “Why ten months all of a sudden? Women have been doing it for nine months for-EVER and now you go and decide you’ll be pregnant for ten?”

Well, actually a pregnancy is 40 weeks, and if we average 4 weeks per month, that’s ten months. But to be perfectly honest, two of those weeks at the beginning are pre-conception, so some would argue they don’t count. We just count them ‘cause it’s easier to pinpoint menstruation than it is to pinpoint ovulation. So, okay, even for the cynics out there, full-term human gestation is 38 weeks. And if we average 4 weeks per month, that’s 9 and a half months. Anywhere else in mathematics, we would round a 9.5 up to 10, however, some doctor, a bajillion years ago, likely one who had never been pregnant, possibly one with a scrotum, decided, ah, we won’t count those last two weeks…no one will miss them if we just pretend all women go through pregnancy for a little less time than they actually do. No matter how you slice it, be it 40 or 38 weeks, it’s all more than nine months. And this myth has been perpetuating and women have been getting credit (depending on whether you’re in the 38-week or the 40-week camp) for only 90-94.7% of their pregnancy trials and tribulations for eons.

Mao likens this to the myth that we have to drink 8 cups of water a day. Apparently, he claims, that is complete hogwash.

Either way, truth is power and it’s time to stop the cycle of ignorance.

Tomatoes in the Rain

My sister wrote me the best e-mail. I love it because it personifies the little worries (or neuroses) that she and I share and the ways in which those who truly love us attempt to ease those worries.

Last night, in Ottawa, there was a thunder storm. Apparently, at one point, it began to rain very, very hard. Maryann and Ben were awake in bed listening to the rain when it occurred to Mary that her tomato plants, which she had so lovingly potted and placed on their balcony, might be drowning or worse yet, might be toppled by the torrential rains and gusty winds. So Ben, bless his heart, plodded downstairs in his sleeping attire and bare feet (ill-equipped though he was for the stormy conditions) and ventured onto the balcony, enduring a thorough soaking, to rescue Mary’s tomato plants. He brought them all safely inside then returned up the stairs, his bare feet now leaving wet footprints on the wooden steps, his hair clinging to his forehead, but a warm satisfaction in his heart knowing that his loved one would sleep easily tonight.

He crawled back in bed and Mary, feeling bad, said she was sorry and that she was thankful. They closed their eyes.

Then, about ten minutes later, the storm began to subside and the rain let up. Mary’s eyes opened again. She turned anxiously to her husband, “Ben? What if the plants are leaking their water all over the wood floor?”

So Ben got out of bed once again, went downstairs, and put the well-loved tomatoes outside again on the balcony.

And they all lived happily ever after… Maryann, Ben, the tomatoes and the parquet floor.

PC words of flattery for pregnant ladies

I know that I have some very loving friends and caring co-workers who want to show their support and interest in my pregnancy. They want to acknowledge that they notice my mid-section is growing and it's probably because of the baby. This is a very delicate path to tread on, since weight gain is not normally something you point out to a lady. But so deep is the desire to share in the excitement, sometimes we trip up or seem to trip up in the opinions of the overly-sensitive ever-expanding pregos.

As I look back on today, I hope to heaven I never said anything hurtful or insensitive to any of my pregnant friends (or pregnant strangers). And I know my boss didn't mean to be hurtful when she glanced at my belly and said, "Gettin' kind of chubby there, aren't we?" But I thought I would help create a list, in my humble opinion of safe comments vs. unsafe comments:

safe comment: What a cute baby bump!
unsafe comment: You're HUGE!
safe comment: You're glowing.
unsafe comment: Wow, even your ankles look pregnant.
safe comment: You can't even tell you're pregnant from behind.
unsafe comment: You look about ready to pop.
unsafe comment: You look exhausted. Must be from carrying around all that extra weight.
unsafe comment: Boy, you sure ARE eating for two, aren't you?
unsafe comment: I only put on twelve pounds when I was pregnant with my eldest.
unsafe comment: I ran until eight hours before I gave birth to my daughter.
unsafe comment: You can tell you're having a boy because you're carrying it all in your ass.

FYI.
Best to be informed. Keeps everyone safer.
:)

Breaking News: Mariah Treats her Husband as an ASSISTANT!

When I read the headline on the front of the tabloid, I knew I was supposed to be both shocked and horrified. Obviously, being treated as an assistant is degrading. But is it?

I can’t help but think of the millions of ways I assist my husband and he assists me. We even do favours for each other that fall into the scope of the job profile of a professional assistant. Do I ever feel slighted? Does the press create an uprising? Isn’t this part of what married folks do? Isn’t this what families do for each other?

I am the chief editor of all written works produced by Mark since about 2005. I regularly do his groceries. He often plans my upcoming meals, creates a grocery list and organizes it by region of the grocery store. I do his taxes. He cuts my lawn. I do his laundry. He does my laundry. I buy cat food. He scoops the kitty litter. I make his breakfast fruit salad. He goes out to buy me ice cream…or chips…or cake…or subs. It feels really nice to be part of a team. It feels relieving to not have to do everything yourself. It is reassuring to be able to depend on someone and the skills and energy they bring to the relationship.

So, treat your husband as an assistant, Mariah. That’s what they’re there for.

Which Came First?

A colleague of mine, Carol, was recounting to me today about how she answered her eldest daughter, who was only just a few years old at the time, when she asked her then-pregnant mother, "How did that happen?"

"Well," Carol replied carefully, "A mommy has eggs..."
She wanted to hit the technicalities but not necessarily the details, "...and sometimes a mommy's eggs get fertilized. When that happens a mommy gets pregnant with a baby."

Her daughter's eyes grew wide with surprise, "You mean...I was once a chicken?!"

Jokes about Body Parts

Sometimes teachers make their own fun. I admit, some things seem funnier in the classroom than later on, when I’m recounting them to others. The following situation is probably one such instance.

You see, I sent home progress reports to all 150 students that I teach. And I gave them one week to return them with parental signatures. After one week, about 50% of the students had returned them. I can’t give detentions to 70 odd kids, so I have to really try to motivate them to return those sheets. Also, I can’t phone 70 sets of parents. Just not enough time.

So I was calling upon individual students who had not returned their progress reports in one particular class. I was giving my very stern face to one young man and really stressing that he HAD to return the sheet the following day. He nodded emphatically and said Yes Yes he would, he PROMISED. And I said How do I KNOW? And he said Oh I really will return it tomorrow. And I began to find it amusing, so I said And what if you don’t? And he looked at me blankly, not knowing what the right answer to this question was. And the rest of the class looked on warily and seriously. And then I said Can I shave your head if you don’t bring it tomorrow? And the boy I was speaking to grinned a bit, knowing I was joking, and the rest of the class began to smile. The boy said Okay.

The next young man said Do I have to give you my hair too? And I said No….If you don’t bring your sheet back tomorrow, I’d like your left ear. The class began to giggle. My EAR?! He cried somewhat gleefully. Well, It’s won’t be an issue, I said, Since you’re going to bring it FOR SURE tomorrow, right? Right, he grinned. I told the next student I would take her right ear. Then I requested a nose, a pinky finger from a left hand, a forearm, a foot, a shoulder joint. I even had a kid nicknamed Squid offer me his insides. Then the kid who had offered his hair asked if he could instead give me his pinky. I said Nope, No take-backs.

Then I got really creative (after I ran out of decent body parts to be discussed openly in a grade 8 classroom). I asked Elliott for a pony. He said A PONY! I said Yes, I’ve always wanted a pony. He looked at me with surprise and amusement. Then I announced loudly to the class Elliott has offered to buy me a Pony. They all began to clap. I asked the next kid for a red Jetta. And the last kid for a blue Jetta (for my husband, I explained).

In the car, on the way home, I told Mark that if the girl who owed me a red Jetta did, in fact, bring her signed progress report tomorrow, then I had dibs on the blue Jetta, despite what I told the kids.

The next day was the Math exam. A few students forgot to bring rulers to school. They are told specifically that they need a ruler for the exam. Three kids came into my room first thing in the morning asking to borrow a ruler. You MUST return it, I emphasized to each one separately. Kyle said, Oh, I promise to return it. I said, what if you don’t? He wasn’t sure what to say. In the spirit of the day before (he was NOT privy to the shenanigans because he is from another class), I said, Okay, if you DON’T return it right away afterwards….I’d like your right ear.

He turned his face to mine. His jaw dropped and the smile left his face. He looked nothing short of petrified.

I’M KIDDING! I’M KIDDING!

Take the ruler!!! Good luck on your exam.

And he left the room and took the ruler. But you know, he returned it the moment he was done the exam.

From Big Sister to....Just Sisters

Sometimes I fool myself into thinking that Mary and I have grown out of the “big sister/little sister” roles. I guess since we’re both married and grown up, we SHOULD have abandoned those roles. And I guess sometimes I want to believe we have because I was such a frickin’, crazy, bossy, know-it-all big sister (heh heh – I used past tense there). So I like to think that now we’re “just sisters” and we learn from each other (and we do) and since she got married two years earlier than me and has traveled to several far-away places where I’ve never been that I would have embraced the idea that she is a grown up who is competent and wise and independent.

Then something will come up, like the idea of purchasing a house. And she’ll send me a listing for a lovely house. And if we were really “just sisters”, I would say, “oooooh, it’s got such a gorgeous backyard and a beautiful fence… I can just SEE the sunflowers you’ll plant there” or “the fuscia wallpaper in the living room HAS to go, but that’s nothing a little elbow grease can’t fix”. That’s exactly what I should have said. That’s the kind of whimsical encouragement I was supposed to offer (and I am actually capable of offering these day-dreamy comments to any of my other friends). Instead, I turned into control-freak, know-it-all big sister. I knew that it was happening and I knew it was going to come off as insensitive and cold and insulting (it was all of those), but I figured out the monthly payments on a house of that price and sent it off in a matter-of-fact fashion without considering the fact that she has already spoken to a mortgage broker and her husband’s parents have renovated a multitude of houses and she’s not even ACTIVELY looking for a house right now!

ARGH.

All I can say is “I’m sorry, Just-Sis.”

I’ll try not to forget again.

Mother's Day #not-quite-1: A Tough Act to Follow

Mark just might be the sweetest man alive. Not only did he get me a beautiful card for my pre-Mother's Day, but he went to a jewellry store and chose earrings and a necklace in the birth stone of our unborn child and gave them to me. I could never have dreamed of anything more romantic and lovely.

Who Says Babies Don't Come with Instructions

There was no doubt, one of the first things I did when I discovered I was pregnant was to march myself down to our local library to sign out as many books on babies and my library card would allow. I went over to Chapters, sheepishly asked a salesperson where the "Parenting" books were located and then proudly sat myself cross-legged in front of the shelves of babies books to peruse them, suddenly no longer an imposter in that particular aisle of the bookstore.

Later, as we spread the good news, people lent us books with beautiful pictures of fetuses and books that count-down the days in the pregnancy. I have book-marked over twenty informative websites on the topic of being pregnant and what to expect to the point where I would almost say I am well-equipped with the necessary skills to BE PREGNANT.

Knowing what to do afterwards, I hear, is the hard part.

However, Mark's mother has been so helpful in training us, albeit via long distance, in this domain. Very shortly after we shared our news with her, we received a book in the mail through Chapters from her.... it was a beautiful Baby Book for posting ultrasound pictures and memories and creating family trees and for gluing in a lock of our newborn's hair. How sweet!

Shortly after that, Mark received a similar package only this one was very certainly for him. It contained a book for "Expectant Fathers", "25 things every father needs to know" as well as "New Dad's Survival Kit". Perfect, I thought. Now, not only do I know how to survive our pregnancy, Mark has a better idea of how to survive it too.

And then just this week, we received two more books. One has a medical twist, "The 3 a.m. Book" and this all-encompassing, car manual of baby books," Canada's Baby Care Book". It's got everything. It's the grand-daddy of all baby books. It's got the parts on episiotomies and what to pack for the hospital, but it's also got how to change a diaper (that's the stuff no one ever tells you! - or maybe they do and I'm just not there yet), what do you do about the belly button, how to clip baby nails, how to give babies baths, how to select a breast pump, how to identify an undescended testicle...the whole gambit. Yes, it's true that at this point I'm not sure what I don't know, but it seems that if I read this book, I stand a pretty good chance of getting through the first few weeks until a mother (mine or Mark's) can arrive to assist.

So, I guess I'm saying (on the record) that they DO make instruction manuals for babies. And in about eight months, when I'm looking baffled and confused and I'm in way over my head, you can laugh at the naiveté I displayed in this cocky blog.

Things a Teacher Never Wants to Hear

As I type that sentence, so many possibilities spring to mind, but today I lived what felt to me a hilarious moment during my science class.

The students were building their Mechanical Arms using hammers and saws and a recently purchased electric drill.

Somehow, one of my round-faced little boys had been working on drilling a hole in a piece of wood (which we assumed must be EXTREMELY dense) for about fifteen minutes. The hole just didn't seem to be getting deeper. (We later learned he had the bit rotating in the wrong direction.) Consequently, the drilling was taking a long time and the wood was heating up against the metal bit.

My head snapped up in sheer panic (later it would dissolve into absolute amusement) when I heard a calm, yet slightly worried voice ask me, "Mme Peron, Is this supposed to be smoking?"

Fire, on a list of things-teachers-don't-want-to-occur-in-a-classroom, is right up there with dismemberment and accidental nudity. Possibly a close third.

Cravings

I'm not sure when the cravings are supposed to hit. Mark's friend Andrew recounts stories of his wife's astonishing late-night cravings. Mark only has one to reciprocate with. I went through a week-long BLT phase, which eventually we had to quash due to a worry about too many nitrites (I was certainly getting my fair share). But I was more famished, FAR more famished, in my first trimester when, if I failed to eat at 45 minute intervals, my stomach threatened to attempt to absorb my other abdominal organs. Now, I feel like normal ... I have a healthy love of desserts and can out eat my husband on any given day of the week.

Mark's friends are offering him advice. Tim, a retired friend who comes back occasionally to supply teach said, "I only have one piece of advice, Mark."

"What is it?" Mark asked.

"Don't EVER piss off a pregnant lady."

Wise, wise man.

Morning Commute

Forget the highway between Burlington and Mississauga – that’s fairly predictable. What is becoming less and less predictable these days is my travels between the 6 a.m. alarm clock and out the door by 7.

I am a morning person, but these days, tipping my weary, slightly swollen body off the mattress without having it land in a face-plant on the carpet beside the bed has become a bit of a gamble. I will myself upright, having showers half-comatose and then wonder if I’ve used hair conditioner or just shampooed twice.

Eating breakfast has always been a highlight of the morning for me, but if time was tight I could always grab something on the run. Suddenly eating breakfast is as much a predictor for whether I will survive to nine o’clock as the presence of a pulse. It is non-negotiable and it has to be something I LOVE (so these days, that’s eggs).

But what has really swallowed up my prep time in the morning is clothing selection. I have always been a very casual girl, giving less than thirty seconds of thought into my ensemble for the day. Suddenly, I am caught between my loose jeans and my maternity jeans. See, some loose-fitting maternity pants just fall down too much right now and feel too conspicuous (possibly, overly-eager) to be sported. Maternity jeans feel nice and less conspicuous, however, the form-fitting legs and loose-middle make for a belly-accentuating style. I have to be in a belly-accentuating mood to wear them (I have yet to be stricken by this particular urge).

And tops have to be long enough to fit over the crazy, thick and stretchy (and, let’s face it, SCARY) waist-band of these jeans. My regular tops not only don’t fit the bill, but they can hardly hide my muffin tops and belly button these days. So that leaves maternity tops. Some of these are fun, but some of them make me feel like I’m wearing a parachute. I almost feel like I should squeeze every possible minute that I can out of my mainstream t-shirts and form-fitting tops before maternity wear becomes an absolute must. So thirty seconds of preparation has turned into twenty minutes and a heavy reliance on the regular laundering of these items:

- one pair of stretchy green lululemon pants

- my loose-fitting jeans

- my khaki “safari” pants

- every baggy hooded sweatshirt Mark owns

and….I fear that’s about it.

Yes, the morning commute has become somewhat more adventurous, and I fear for Mark the day I weaken and ask, “Do these make me look pregnant?”

Because, I admit, there is no safe answer to free yourself from that one.