Mowgli…
First order of blog business is to change Baby’s name. It pains me to do so. He doesn’t let me call him “Baby” anymore, which is what even he used to call himself. Plus, there is the issue of the actual baby in utero, who for now, we’re just calling Thao. Long story. “Baby,” therefore, is just plain confusing.
So, Mowgli it shall be. He may outgrow this obsessive Jungle Book-watching stage, but I think he will always be my wild little jungle child.
Case in point: “Yots a Ticks!” (translation: lots of sticks)
And for now, obsessive. He wants Jungle Book to be on every day, if only for background noise. During the songs, he rushes to the TV to sing and act out the role of Baloo or King Louie or Colonol Hathie. It’s absolutely adorable. He even named his new baby (doll he made at sibling class and loves) “Mowgli.”
“Ooo-Be-Doo…
…I wanna be like you-hoo-hoooo…”
Thao…
So, I just told you that “Thao” is a long story. I lied, it’s not really. During our Native American blessing ceremony this summer in Sedona, the man kept referring to my belly as “Thao-something-or-other.” Afterward, we asked him what he was saying, and he said that “Thao” is Havasupai for “child.” He didn’t acually explain the “something-or-other.”
But there is life beyond the blogging world, and we do actually have to come up with a real name for lil’ Thao. We have a month until the due date, and we are no further along with the name-choosing than last time. Here we go again, the few that I can think of without my very long, chicken-scratched list:
Girl: Bryn(n). Charlotte. –Those are my two favorites, and the two that Herc has agreed to (although after a round of painful labor, it doesn’t really matter if he’s “agreed” or not). There are others I like, but don’t know if I see them happening: Violet. Olive. Briony. Beatrix (love love love. why?).
Boy: Graham (eek! cracker? BDE says it’s too much like “grandma,” but I love it). Finn (geez, I love this name, but with a last name that starts with “F?”). Milo (not really, but I just find it so cute right now that I have to include it). Jude. Oliver. Ronan. Roscoe.
Help! (although I’m sure to just smile and nod and continue to be confused. But help anyway!)
Mom…
The second half of last week was dreary, dark, cold, and rainy, after the first part, which was sunny and in the 80’s. It was also a new moon, which I swear makes a difference. Plus, I’m fat and uncomfortable.
Which is to say, the second half of last week was full of quite a few “I hate my life” moments. Ridiculous, really, as I have a fabulous, beautiful, enchanted life. Still, between coffee shop visits and walks outside and a nice dinner out and moments of complete maternal fulfillment and joy, I occasionally hated my life.
These moments came during inconsolable-child-fits, or endless, cyclical loads of dishes and laundry, or ungrateful-whiny-brat-fits, or short-order-cook-waitress bouts. There is more to me than this. I would think, throwing my own internal fits. Why does “Mom” have to mean complete self-sacrifice and utter self-degradation? I would wonder, in full drama queen style.
One afternoon, I decided to count the number of “Mommas” I heard from then until the time our table was reserved that night (at a fantastic restaurant for a dinner with friends! What am I complaining about?). Anway, I had to stop twenty minutes later at 50. FIFTY! Fifty times, with only 2 out of 3 children present, I heard “Momma!” repeated, usually whined. Tell me that won’t make a person crazy.
No, I do not currently hate my life, nor have I said the phrase in the last several days. No psychiatrist needed, I promise. Just a random thought about what the name “mom” means, and well, we are talking about names here. I had to keep the blog somewhat cohesive.
