Name My Baby

Posted on Sep 16, 2011 in Uncategorized

Folks, I need your help.  This is serious.  I am now 31 weeks along – for the math-challenged, that means I have a short nine weeks before Baby makes her appearance in this world – and my husband and I are completely unable to agree upon her name.  Why not?  The below conversation represents a typical exchange on the topic of names:

I throw out a cute, slightly sassy, but not over-the-top ridiculous name.

Damon: No.

Me: Why not?

Damon: Veto.

Me: “Veto” does not answer my question.

Damon: I do not recognize that as a name.

Me: You do not recognize it as a name?  What does that even mean?

Damon: I’ve never heard of it.

Me, scornfully: Just because you’ve never heard of it doesn’t mean it’s not a legitimate name!

Damon: Oh yes it does.

Me:  Oh No it does not.  Why should our child be punished with a boring name because you lack any sense of sophistication or creativity?

Damon, skeptically: Really, Diana?

I stare at my stubborn husband, boiling with rage.  

Damon: No.  It’s a professional athlete’s nickname.  We’re having a girl.

Me: AHA! You have heard of it!

Damon: But it’s a dude’s name!

Me: I beg to differ.  I know of at least three actresses with that name.  All. Women.  I’ve never heard of this so-called athlete.

Damon: Veto.

Me, voice an unusually high pitch: You are so close-minded!  Ican’teventalktoyouanymore!

Why is this so difficult?

Meanwhile Damon’s name choices seem to have been inspired solely by 90s sitcoms.  Until he suggests something, like, say, Esmeralda.*

Me: You’re joking, right?

Damon: What?

Me: Please tell me you are kidding.

Damon: What!? I like the name.

Me: Oh my gosh no you don’t.

Damon, exasperated: What!?  I like it.  I do.

Me: I don’t believe you.  There is no way.

Damon remains silent, unable to comprehend his uncomprehending wife.

Me: OMG.  We are not having this conversation.  I did not marry a man who would seriously suggest Esmeralda* as a name worthy of our daughter.

Damon: You are so close-minded!  I can’t talk to you anymore.

See friends, we are stuck in a very, very bad place.  If you don’t help us, we will never escape this name Purgatory and our daughter will wander through life anonymous, suffering an everlasting identity crisis.

My baby name book is completely useless; it lost all legitimacy when it listed “Diana” as a form of “Diane”, the goddess of the moon and the hunt.  (Yes, I looked up my own name.  As if you wouldn’t do the same thing!)  Excuse me, but since when is “Diane” the goddess?  It’s Diana!  Anyone with even the slightest knowledge of classical mythology should recognize that.  A book claiming to be the “complete book of baby names” and dedicated to “richer definitions” most certainly should.  After discovering this inexcusable inaccuracy, I could no longer trust The Book.  So I am turning to you instead.


Of course I am not going to solely entrust my daughter’s name-fate to the blogosphere – that would just be insane.  But I welcome your inspired suggestions.  Feel free to post your favorite names in the comment section, and perhaps you will stoke the creative fires Damon and I need to make this all-important decision.  Should you provide the name we choose, you will win… my undying gratitude.  And the satisfaction of knowing you quite possibly saved my marriage.

I do have some parameters:

(1) No inanimate objects.

(2) No names beginning with “D”.  I just can’t be part of an all-alliterative family.  Damon & Diana is bad enough.

(3) In case there are any crazies out there reading this, I’m not going to reveal my last name.  However, I will say that it is… unique.  The wrong name could destine my daughter to a lifetime of exotic dancing.  And we don’t want that now, do we?

This is an example of an unacceptable name. Sorry, Gwyneth.

Now go forth and name.

*Esmeralda was not an actual name used in any conversations regarding our daughter.

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Stretch Marks, Be Gone!

Posted on Sep 14, 2011 in Uncategorized

Better yet, don’t show up to begin with! Stretch Marks:  Two words that strike fear into the hearts of women everywhere.  Pregnant women, especially. It’s no shocker that pregnant women gain weight.  About 25-35 pounds if you maintain a healthy pregnancy.  Healthy or not, stretch marks are a wild card.  Supposedly you have no control over whether or not they show up.  You can eat healthy, gain weight at a moderate pace, exercise and still those little buggers could pop up.  Now that just doesn’t seem fair, does it? They (whoever “they” are) say that stretch marks are genetic.  One of my pregnancy email updates even told me to consider the marks a “badge of honor” for what my body was doing in growing a baby.  Are you kidding me?  As if! In case you haven’t gotten the point yet, you can do nothing to prevent them.  Well I’ll be damned if I don’t try.  I am only 26, and I refuse to believe my bikini days are over. Enter this woman: Yes, Victoria Beckham.  Posh Spice, that saucy minx, has proven to be my stretch mark saving grace.  While researching how to prevent the unpreventable, I came across an article in which Ms. Beckham raved about Elemis Japanese Camellia Oil Blend as her secret to remaining stretch mark free.  (I also suspect Victoria may not eat, which could additionally contribute to her lack of stretch marks)*.   But who cares – if this oil is good enough for Posh, it’s good enough for me!  She was my favorite Spice Girl, after all. So far I have not been disappointed.  The oil is light, non-greasy and even smells pretty.  And more importantly, I have been using it for about three months and have yet to find a single stretch marks.  Don’t get me wrong, I still have nine weeks for these belly (and thigh and back and butt) blights to appear.  But for now I’m going to keep slathering this stuff on as if there is no tomorrow – I’m not going down without a fight. Not pregnant?  No worries! ...

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A Wildcat Wedding

Posted on Sep 12, 2011 in Uncategorized

I’m back after a brief blogging hiatus to attend the wedding of two dear friends, Ms. Brett Saunders (now Knabe) and Darren Knabe.  I met both Brett and Darren at Northwestern, so this wedding also functioned as a college reunion of sorts. Let me tell you, this was not the wedding to be pregnant at.  To recap: The rehearsal dinner: The rehearsal dinner was held at a Mexican restaurant.  Please reference the below picture. Yes, it is a lovely picture of the bride-to-be and one of her bridesmaids, Elena, but what I really want to you notice is the GIANT margarita glass in the foreground.  If you read my last post, you know my affinity for margaritas.  Feeling feisty, I ordered a non-alcoholic strawberry daiquiri to distract myself from the margarita magic happening all around me.  It was such a disappointment, not even worth the calories to drink.  Meanwhile my icy, salted beverage of choice taunted me as everyone around me partook in the massive margs; all I could do was drool, and drool is not exactly a welcome addition to an already shiny, pregnancy-bloated face. Pregnancy: 1, Diana: 0 The grooming: The morning of the wedding, the bridal party (did I mention I was a bridesmaid?) joined the bride for hair and makeup.  Being that Baby now likes to keep me awake most of the night, I have some serious under-eye circles going on.  No amount of makeup can cover those bad boys up.  And now they will be forever immortalized in Brett and Darren’s wedding album.  Sorry, guys. Pregnancy: 2, Diana: 0 The bridesmaid dress:  The dress was actually beautiful (thanks, Brett!) and a very flattering pregnancy style.  As I seem to be expanding by the minute, I was more than a tad nervous it might not zip up come game time.  Since crash diets aren’t approved for pregnancy (or ever, really), I could only pray that it would fit.  It took some help, but it zipped!  Take that, Pregnancy! Pregnancy: 2, Diana: 1 The bridesmaid dress, part II: Despite the flattering, flowy style, I still felt...

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Reflections on Summer

Posted on Sep 6, 2011 in Uncategorized

Hope you all had a wonderful Labor Day weekend!  Damon and I spent the first half of the weekend in Annapolis for his USNA 10 year reunion.  (I have to say, the Naval Academy grads have held up pretty darn well 10 years post-graduation). Yesterday we spent actually laboring (and by “we”, I mean Damon): building the changing table, bookshelf and crib for the nursery.  Well, we Damon tried to build the crib, but this is how it arrived: Hmmm.  I don’t think that meets US safety regulations. Crib or no crib, summer is over (although someone has yet to inform the heat and humidity), and for me, this is cause for celebration.  If you came to this post thinking I was going to joyfully detail the greatness of the beaches and BBQs that typically characterize summer, you’ve probably never read this blog before.  Mourn the departure of the warm-weather months?  Not likely.  No, no.  In fact, I am going to tell you why planning your pregnancy to fall during summertime is a terrible, awful, no-good, very bad idea. My mom always said to plan for spring babies so you don’t have to be pregnant during summer.  Did I listen?  Of course not.  Oh, how I wish I had.  Here’s why: 1)    Summer is hot.  I know.  This is not news.  But it’s even hotter when you’re pregnant.  It’s even hotter when you’re pregnant and experience record-breaking heat waves. Somehow I managed to visit Washington D.C. the two hottest weekends on record, Charleston when the heat index hit triple-digits, and Southern California the one week of the entire summer the temperatures rose to the high-90s.  How does that happen?  Not to mention my actual hometown is its own muggy swampland. Add anywhere from 10-30 pounds of extra pregnancy padding, and you’re doomed to be a literal hot mess all summer long. 2)    I entered my second trimester very early summer.  This means I spent the majority of the season in the I-don’t-look-pregnant-only-fat stage.  This during the season of shorts and sundresses!?  Forget bathing suits.  Now I love a hot...

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Chivalry is Dead – And Hipsters Killed It

Posted on Sep 4, 2011 in Uncategorized

I realize that my last post was travel-themed.  However given that it is Labor Day Weekend, a notoriously busy traveling weekend, I’d like to offer a few more thoughts to my fellow travelers.  Specifically, to my fellow male travelers: Help me with my freaking bags, you useless, inconsiderate, pathetic excuses for men. Seriously – I have not once been helped with my carry on luggage in the past six months.  It’s as if pregnancy is an excuse for men not to assist me.  When did this happen?  When did it become socially acceptable for an able-bodied man to stand idly by and watch a lady struggle to lift her luggage? Within the past year, I’ve flown to Orange County, Los Angeles and San Francisco more times than I care to count.  I’ve flown to Asia and Europe.  I’ve also flown to a variety of other cities including Las Vegas, Indianapolis and New York, among others.  While on a couple of these flights I have been accompanied by my husband – who is a true gentleman and always carries my luggage and sometimes even my purse (but only when my back is really, really aching) – most of the time I am flying solo. Let’s examine the flights to San Francisco.  Do you think anyone ever helps me on those flights?  Ha!  Everyone on the San Fran flights is either high or a hipster.  This is what I have to say to all you skinny hipster “men”: I don’t care if your jeans are tighter than mine.  I don’t care if I can beat you in a push-up contest.  Summon whatever ounce of manliness you possess buried in the depths of your souls and pick up my bags for me.  I promise I won’t tell anyone. How about the flights to Europe?  Any assistance then?  Nope!  To the European men: I’ve been on your continent enough to know you have no problem inappropriately cat calling me or grabbing my ass.  Whatever.  I can deal.  But in return I ask that you please store my luggage in the overhead compartment.  Thank...

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Yeah, I Hate That Screaming Child, Too

Posted on Sep 1, 2011 in Uncategorized

My friend Lauren recently sent me the following article: How To Fly Cross-Country With Small Children (Without Benadryl).  Presumably she expects I will be traveling frequently with my little one in the next few years: trips from Japan to both the East and West Coast to visit family, a Danube river cruise next summer, port-hopping to visit Damon, Christmas in New Zealand, vacations to Fiji… Okay, maybe I’m getting a little ahead of myself, but regardless, Baby is likely to get acquainted with airplanes fairly early on.  I am already anxious over the possibility that she won’t be a good flier, so articles like this are helpful.  Or not. Being that I’m not actually a parent yet, I probably shouldn’t be commenting on others’ parental advice.  But this I can’t resist. The author clearly does not approve of medicating your child with Benadryl or other antihistamines for a flight.  First of all, I didn’t know that was even legal, and now that I do, I find it to be FANTASTIC news!  I regularly medicate myself for flights, so why not my kid?  It’s only logical.  (I’m sure someone is reporting me to Child Protective Services at this very moment…) So what does she suggest instead?  One of her ideas is giving your little tyke 4-5 surprise gifts throughout the flight (but only for flights longer than 4 hours).  “You can get a good 20 minutes out of the novelty of opening the gift and exploring it…” I’m sorry, but when have you ever seen a child spend 20 minutes opening a present?  I would say 20 seconds to destroy and immediately discard of the wrapping, max.  But Non-Medication Mom may have thought of that: she suggests using a scarf for wrapping, buying you another 20 minutes of non-meltdown flying time by playing peek-a-boo or dress up with said scarf.  Right. Another suggestion: Pack snacks.  Okay, I’m totally behind that.  I get super cranky when I am not fed regularly, so I’m sure the same goes for a small child.  What does the author rely on to stave off her...

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