The fact that it still feels sort of unreal? Unlike the number of pounds I’ve gained, that is totally, totally normal.
At least that’s what Heidi says.
People I Want to Punch: Don’t Touch Me
We pregnant girls are united in what some might call “acquired situational narcissism,” but what I prefer to think of as a harmless case of “It’s all about us.” Who else would even bother pretending to care about nuchal fold measurements or leg cramps?
We need each other. We really do.
That’s why I really hate to turn on my own kind ... but some of them have made my list of people I want to punch.
It seems kind of petty, I know, but I just want to haul off and smack pregnant ladies who get all bent out of shape when people rub their stomachs. You really need to lighten up and get over yourself, two pieces of advice I myself have never been able to take, but which seem very fitting in light of the low level of affront that is actually being done to you. Someone is patting your belly. That’s it. It’s not like strangers are walking up to you for an ambush fisting. That would be rude, and unsanitary. No, they are just grazing your shirt, keeping many layers of fabric, skin, fat, muscle and fascia between their fingers and your future child.
And generally, it is not some belly-molesting evil-doer trying to attack you, but rather a nice, well-meaning person experiencing the magnetic pull of your irresistible, giant bump.
If you don’t see why that mesmerizes people, you just don’t understand the miracle of childbirth. C’mon. Take a step back. A baby grows in your stomach and comes out of your vagina and then goes to nursery school and becomes a full-fledged human being, who may very well create other full-fledged human beings. If you think about it, and I don’t suggest you do this high, it’s mind-blowing.
I see where you’re coming from. I really do. You don’t think people should invade your body bubble just because you’re pregnant; after all, they wouldn’t do this horrible thing to you if you weren’t pregnant, wouldn’t dream of it. Yes, your body is still your own, absolutely. I just don’t quite grasp the near religious fervor that seems to screech, “Don’t touch me, because I’m so special that if your grubby hand goes anywhere near my precious child, I’m going to get regular people cooties!”
Do you really need the righteously indignant and borderline sanctimonious “Hands Off My Bump” maternity T-shirts and others like it that are available online and also in hell, where ironic maternity T-shirts are very popular? Talk about literally wearing your aggression and smugness on your sleeve.
If you want to hear a chorus of pregnant women shout “Hallelujah,” just start going off about strangers or even relatives touching your stomach, which is why I really wish I could relate or at least fake agree; I’d love a chorus behind me and I think it’s patently obvious I need validation like my fetus needs folic acid. I just can’t lie, though. Women who wear those bitter message T-shirts bother me. Getting riled up about this isn’t nearly as adorably sassy as some women think it is.
I understand pregnancy discomfort and accompanying hormonal moods—I’m sitting here chomping Tropical Fruit Tums as I type this—but someone feeling your pregnant stomach really isn’t the worst thing that’s ever happened, is it? And the put-upon attitude doesn’t bode well for your maternal future. If someone touching your belly feels invasive, things are really going to get gnarly when the kid invades your space by nursing on your boob ten times a day, or crying while you’re sleeping, or spitting up on one of your hilarious T-shirts. Get ready to have your boundaries crossed, because there are folks who have good reasons to touch your baby. That’s right. Doctors, nurses, midwives, the baby’s father, they will all eventually lay their mitts on your actual young one. The saying goes “It takes a village to raise a child,” not “Everyone in this village better keep their paws off me because I’m more pure than a vat of boiled antibacterial gel in a plastic bubble on Howie Mandel’s desk and the villagers are germy, disgusting losers.”
It would be nice to think of those of us on the verge of becoming mothers as warm, as cuddly, open creatures who will endeavor to make our babies feel safe and cozy in the world, not as rigid rule makers and enforcers who will crumble the first time some poop lands on our pristine white changing table pad or perhaps works its way into our giraffe-themed nursery throw rug.
I hear tell childbirth is going to be a messy business. Hands will be on us, grabbing or cutting out a kid and possibly helping to shove our nipples into their little mouths.
Hands are going to be on our babies eventually. Yeah, it would be nice if they were free of infectious diseases, but I’m just saying it might be time to loosen the lid on the bottle of “don’t touch me.”
The whole “Hands Off” movement reminds me of Les Nessman on the sitcom WKRP in Cincinnati and the invisible wall he created to delineate his nonexistent office. It was a funny running joke because it pointed to his character’s essential immaturity. Grow up. You’re pregnant, your stomach is jutting out and people are going to be tempted to reach out and touch it, because that’s the human condition. No amount of brassy, finger-wagging, tell-it-to-the-hand antagonism is going to make a wall where there is none.
My specialty is whining about nothing, and this annoys even me. So kindly endure the four seconds of bad touch on your stomach or I’ll secretly fantasize about coming after your face.
thirteen
Dragging My Names Through the Mud
One minute, you think naming your son Shane is going to give him a chaps-wearing leg up in life by bestowing on him all the quiet coolness of a 1950s movie cowboy. The next, you’re sure naming him Shane will make him the poopy-pants, wheezy outcast who sits out gym class because he forgot his inhaler.
It’s a big job, naming a human being.
Girl names are a littler simpler because you can run your nominees through the “attorney/first date” test.
After committing a crime, you don’t want to hear, “Hi, I’m your court-appointed attorney, Cinnamon.” On the other hand, if I’m fixing you up on a blind date with my cousin, you won’t be especially psyched for dinner and a movie with Judith. Basically, choosing a girl name boils down to finding one that doesn’t free-associate to either stripper or spinster. She should be fine introducing herself by first name in either a boardroom or the freshman mixer.
When naming a girl, you’re just trying to thread that needle, which I think I did with “Harper.” In any case, I loved that name and now that I’m having a boy, I can’t seem to come up with anything that feels just as right.
For boys, almost every name seems to fall into one of two categories: too boring (John, Robert, William) or too hip (Jasper, Asher, Logan).
Aside from which, our boy will be half Jewish and half Catholic, so his name should suit him in either world. Christopher has always been one of my favorites, but that’s not so fun on the bimah. I should know about religiously confusing first names, because I’m fairly certain I’m the only Jew named Teresa on the planet. Trust me, no one wants to share a name with a couple of saints when attending Hebrew school with a very elderly teacher who eventually just ends up calling you Rachel, a name you answer to for several years just to save time.
On the other hand, I’ve always liked having a name that allows me to “pass” as a gentile, because while I love my people, not everyone does, and when I’m in, say, Kentucky reporting a story on the Appalachian poor, it’s nice not to have to introduce myself as Shoshana. On that trip, as a matter of fact, I was sitting in a tiny diner eating grits when I overheard this tidbit: “Did you know Jew ladies breast-feed their babies until they’re five years old?”
That’s when I borrowed my coworker’s crucifix for the rest of my stay in Kentucky.
Shoshana might know something about Jew ladies, but Teresa most certainly does not.
All the years asking my parents why they chose such a Catholic name for me, they insisted that it’s Hungarian and seemed confounded about why it�
�s a big deal. Now, though, I’m very grateful to be ethnically vague. I’m not going to saddle my child with some unmistakably Jewish name like Chaim (my grandfather) or Irving (two of my uncles), but maybe I don’t want to go all New Testament on him either.
Now that I know how hard it is, I can understand why some mothers are so secretive about the names on their short list. First of all, they don’t want to finally settle on a name only to have it inevitably slammed. Second, they are afraid of name-napping, a crime I’m flirting with right now. My girlfriend Cassandra is naming her baby Laszlo, and I’m in love with that name. It’s different, but not too crazy; it’s Hungarian—a tip of the yarmulke to my ancestry; and it alludes to my favorite movie, Casablanca, which features the Czech Resistance leader Victor Laszlo.
If you know the movie, you also know there is a character named Major Strasser, who is a major Nazi, which makes it a majorly strange surname when you happen to be a Jew named Teresa.
Still, the connection to Casablanca makes the name Laszlo seem even more serendipitous. What’s more, it flows well with my husband’s consonant-rich Polish name and not many names do. And there’s the adorable nickname: Laz. Baby Laz. The more I say it to myself, the more I have to have it.
The ethical and practical questions surrounding name-napping are many. Most people tell me, “They don’t own that name. Just take it.” However, I plan to see these people and their Laszlo and I don’t like knowing that I lacked the creativity to come up with my own darn baby name. Cassandra tells me I can have it, and not in a phony way. She really wouldn’t mind if we both have boys named Laszlo, but I would always know in my heart I boosted it. Name-napping may be a victimless crime, but every single time you utter that baby’s name, you will be reminded of your own thievery, and anytime the name is praised, you will feel like you have won a Pulitzer Prize for writing you plagiarized.
Running out of time to come up with something original, I ask for suggestions on my blog. Because I haven’t settled on a beloved boy name, I’m not worried about strangers crapping on it. In fact, I welcome input.
It turns out, people are passionate about this subject, because we’ve all either given a name or been given one and anyone who has read Freakonomics knows names matter. According to that book’s chapter on baby names, it’s not that a name influences a child’s character, but that the type of parents who choose a particular name may influence a child’s character, and thus the destiny of a Destiny has been somewhat preordained. This may be oversimplifying, but as I understand it, if you think the name Destiny is a good idea, you probably think books and nutritious meals are bad ideas, and I apologize to all girls named Destiny, Destinee, Destineigh, Destiknee or Destinay. It’s just an example. I’m sure your parents probably did a better job than mine.
As for my son, for the rest of my life, I will have to say his name, scream his name, whisper his name and write his name. Unconsciously, my child will be judged by his name. I’ve got to really pull something out of my ass here.
I’m thinking James.
You know the trouble with this one: the nickname Jim. Jims seem like nice guys. Jims drive your daughter home from soccer practice without even thinking about molesting her. Jims sell you a used Honda at a fair price. Jims make nifty substitute teachers. I just don’t want one. I am told that Jim is an old-school nickname, and that James can now be just James. I have also been told it’s becoming a popular girl name. Those greedy little girl parents are taking everything.
I decide to contact a baby name expert, Pamela Redmond Satran (the developer of the addictive site Nameberry.com and the coauthor of Beyond Ava & Aiden: The Enlightened Guide to Naming Your Baby). As far as I can tell, she is the baby name maven, and better yet, she seems opinionated. None of this, “The name that feels right to you and your family is the name that’s right for you” crap.
Pamela turns out to be a big James fan. As I scribble notes with my phone on speaker and my name expert on blast, she says, “For me, James is really good. And it doesn’t have to be Jim, though I actually like Jim. I have a Joe who has never, ever been called Joey, at least by anyone who lived to tell about it. There are lots of Jameses—but not in your neighborhood. Unless they’re girls. I really don’t think the girls are taking it over, though, not en masse outside the hipster ghetto.”
Most of the comments on my Web site are pro-James, but several warn me that I will spend a lifetime being the mom who corrects people. “It’s James.” I need to be annoying in other ways.
I’m thinking Mickey.
One word: Rocky. You know, “Cut me, Mick.” Burgess Meredith, who played Rocky’s grizzled old trainer, was iconic as Mickey, and instead of showing my boy Casablanca, I can show him another of my favorite films. I also love Denis Leary’s sponsor/cousin/former priest, Mickey, from the cable hit Rescue Me. Mickey has a solid Irish feel that I love juxtaposed against my husband’s super-Polish surname. Mickey loans you money. Mickey plays pool but won’t shark you. Mickey knows more than he lets on. Mickey won’t sucker punch you, but if you push him too far, he’ll break the top off his bottle and threaten you with it just to keep you from acting like a bully. However, does Mickey sound too much like Nicky? And does one have to start with the name Michael to get to Mickey? Will there be lots of Mickey Mouse teasing—you know, M-I-C-K-E-Y? Why? Because your parents chose the wrong name.
After I run this one by my name expert, there is silence on the line for a moment.
“You want to know what I really think? You can’t name a kid Mickey. Yes, there’s the mouse, Mickey Rourke, and I dunno, do you really want a son who’s the movie sidekick, too good for his own good? Plus, what if he wants to be a bond trader—you’re a writer; this could be a good thing—except they won’t let him into business school because he’s got such an infantile name. I repeat: You can’t name a kid Mickey.”
This is what happens when you seek advice. Your name gets the axe, or a permanent blemish you can’t remove, or a “no” so emphatic you can’t pretend you didn’t hear it. For every person who loves a name, there is someone who was dumped or fired by someone with that name.
If you’ve ever loathed a man, you can never again enjoy the smell of that man’s cologne. No matter who’s wearing it, the scent will make you sick. That’s what it’s like with names, and maybe my name expert knew some idiot named Mickey and couldn’t get the stink off her brain.
My readers bombard me with alternative “M” names like Max, Miles, Milo and Mitchell, all great, but none for me.
I’m thinking Finnegan.
This is the only really quirky name on my short list. Again, I like the mixed ethnicity thing. And the book Finnegans Wake took about seventeen years to write, and I like the idea of someone slaving over a book most people can neither read nor understand. And I love the nickname Finn. Is this getting too Aiden/Jaden/Caden? Is Finn trying too hard? Are girls co-opting this one, too?
I’m nervous what Pamela will have to say about this one.
“Finnegan,” she repeats. “I actually think Finn is really the better name. Finn McCool is the greatest hero of Irish mythology. Why does everyone think they have to pick Finnegan or Finnian or Fin-lay and then call their kid Finn? It’s not like Jim. Okay, that rant is over. Yes, it is getting too common. It is very easy to like, and that’s its problem.”
Are there alternatives to Finnegan? I pose the question to the name guru.
“You mean Irish surname-y names? Are you Irish? Do you have any in your family? I do kind of like the Maguire/O’Brien thing, but I think the name’s got to be real to pull it off.”
Well, my husband is half Irish, so I guess that qualifies us, I tell her, but just barely.
“Here’s an Irish name that’s totally undiscovered: Piran, patron saint of miners,” she adds.
Piran sounds too much like a brand of cookware and now I’m questioning our low level of Irishness.
Plus, there are probably going to be a few Finns in every elementary school cl
ass, if the name lady is right, all with parents who thought they were being original. Other Irish names, such as Gavin, Ian, Colm, Dylan, and Rowan, are all either taken by the children of Daniel’s Irish relatives or too fancy.
Other quirky names my readers like include Hoagy, Balthazar, Cabot, Miller, Lazare, Kyd, Spider, Stosh, Zeno and Taytum. All are too “Hollywood” for my husband.
I’m still thinking Shane.
The Mister has all but closed the swinging saloon door on this one, but I like it because Shanes are always hot. And he could introduce himself with a joke about how he sounds like a Polish cowboy, and it’s nice to have a built-in introductory joke.
My name expert is not ambivalent on this one, either.
“Absolutely no. You’re birthing him, not dating him.”
Good point. But I hope someone will be dating him, and perhaps the name Shane will help.
A guy named Shane posts on my blog: “My parents named me Shane and I hated it. I remember being two years old and hating my name. I’ve never stopped hating it. Also, I’m sad to report that not all boys named Shane are attractive.”
I’m thinking Edward.
This is racing toward the top for me. Eddie and Ed are cute nicknames. Edward was my grandfather. Sure, he was manic-depressive, but he always had a refrigerator full of Hires root beer and he once made me feel like a genius for getting the word “mauve” in a game of Boggle when I was eight. He told that story until I went to college. Eddie Strasser was my biggest fan.
Is Edward too boring? Will there be too many Edwards in his world? Sometimes my husband test-drives this one by saying “Edward” very sternly to my belly.
I have no idea what Pamela will make of this, the last name on my list. As I’m scrawling notes, I throw this one out at her and hold my breath for a second.
“This is what we wanted to name our second son, now sixteen. We were going to call him Ned. We loved it, and I still do. But our older kids, aged ten and four, said it was a nerd name and they would hate him if we called him Ned, so we didn’t do it. And now he thanks us. But I still have regrets and think the Twilight Edward has substantially increased the hotness factor. I love this name and definitely think it’s the best on your list.”
Exploiting My Baby Page 12