EJ's Name Game

What would you do?

You are five months pregnant. Your husband has cheated on you and you are getting divorced.  He has moved across the country and you don't know if he'll ever be back.  You are more than a little hurt/pissed/shocked, and all of the baby names the two of you liked are now out of the question. Oh, and you've just found out you're having a boy.

Your sister calls and suggests the name Ethan.  You don't immediately hate it, and upon further review, it means "enduring" and "strong"...two words you've had to embrace.  Perfect. Done. Lovely. He'll be Ethan.

Now for the middle name.  You want to honor the afore-mentioned sister (an E herself) and match Ethan's middle initial to her's...J.  No J's pop out at you immediately.  This is tiring.  Jorge, Jim, John, Jerry...nothing fits.  Hold it.  You are Irish.  You've taken shots before.  Jameson.  Sounds a little snazzy/preppy, and even though you don't love whiskey, you can't name him Jagermeister.  So that's that. He's EJ.

Uh oh.  Last name.  You know you are ditching your married name ASAP, and it's hard for you to even say it out loud at the moment.  You have other things on your plate, so you block it from your mind for a few months. As your divorce proceedings ebb and flow, moments of calm and anger dictate solutions to the last name conundrum.  You've found out that you can actually name your son anything you want, and when you are pissed or hurt eccentric names flow freely.  Cute E. Pie. Aquaman. A symbol ala Prince circa 1993. When you are calm, you plan to stick with the status quo and use your married name. After all, you are a rule-follower and kids usually take their father's name.

Then it's time to give birth.  You haven't really heard from your husband in months, save for a last-minute email asking if you want him to be in the room for the birth.  No thanks.  You've already assembled a crack-team of birth coaches who are all piled in the room singing your praises and whispering words of encouragement. It's like Lilith Fair...not at dude in sight, except for the one you're all trying to coax out. Then he comes.  He is 7 lbs. 11 oz. and a real person.  An instantaneous  true love.  He's EJ.  You snuggle and cuddle and cry...partially from joy and partially from fear that you have no idea what you're doing and the hospital will only offer babysitting services for the next two days.

You wake up the next morning and it's crunch time.  The official people need to know his official name.  A woman walks in with an offical-looking clipboard.  "Can you please give me your son's full name?"  EJ. "And his last name?" Ummmm.  "Well, is his father in the picture?"  Not right now.  "Do you know the father?" Yes....I stopped turning tricks years ago (awkward silence).  "You know what, why don't I come back in an hour?"  Yes, please, that will be great (I don't like you, official lady!).

Just then, a nurse wheels EJ in from the babysitting room.  He is wrapped up and you swear he makes a cooing noise as you snuggle him into your chest.  For the first time in this name game, you think about him as a boy and then a man whose name and legacy are important and will far outlive you and the memory of this petty divorce.  It's not time for bitterness.  He was a planned baby, and even though your marriage is over, you have to honor it for his sake. Whoa, Whoa...hold on though...you just pushed this baby out of your body all on your own! You'll be doing everything for this little nugget, and then one day you'll have to hear him ask you why you have a different last name?  No, no, no, nu uh, no. Back to square one.  But wait, you majored in journalism.  You know a little bit about words and stuff.  Eureka! The hypen.  EJK-M. Everyone wins. 

The official lady comes back in.  You find your words again and spell out his full name.  "Boy, that's long." Yes, and it's wonderful.  

EJ's name is long and wonderful and slightly ridiculous-cool and one day, EJ can decide to keep, shorten, or change it.  At least then it will be his choice.  He deserves that.

Divorce and The Name Game

What's in a name?

Growing up, I liked my name just fine and would contentedly scribble MAK in 90s-style bubble letters on scraps of paper during boring classes (I'm talking to you, pre-calc!).  Other than that, I didn't give MAK any thought. Monogramming wasn't big then either, so I only had my initials inscribed on an L.L. Bean tote for my first year of teaching...it's like a rite of passage in the profession. Anyways, other than old scraps of loose leaf and my school bag, MAK was a non-issue.

Then I got married.  I loved my new name--it really rolled off the tongue and I adored my symmetrical initials-MAM. It was a monogrammist's dream.  Most importantly, I like all varieties of M&Ms and I took it as a sign from the universe that all that lay ahead for MAM was sweet, sweet love.

Since we know that my marriage imploded (I'm really holding back on dropping candy puns), four years after I'd become MAM, I stood in a depressing, taupe-colored court room, and asked a gruff, impatient judge permission to become MAK again.  Once I swore not to embark on a life of crime with my former name, or that I didn't have outstanding debts as MAM, he signed an official document, shoved in into his clerk's hands, and sent me on my way....divorced and in name purgatory until I could go through all the rigor-moral of changing my name (again). For months, I strolled around with two identities....just like Batman.  EJ was only a few weeks old and I couldn't find a second for myself, let alone time to haul it over to the DMV and Social Security Office.

Immediately, I started going by MAK at work, which was awkward, considering I worked with children who knew me by a completely different name.  My twenty students finally got into the MAK habit, only to look perplexed when former or younger students shouted and waved to MAM.  To add insult to injury, I had to drop "Mrs.", which parlayed into a confusing time referring to myself as "Miss" until one of my highly-intelligent (read it: smartass) students informed me that only girls under 18 can call themselves "Miss", and I was certainly "not anywhere close to 18."  I still don't know if he's right, but I was publicly shamed into believing it.  So, I was Ms. MAK by day and then Mrs. MAM on my license, at doctor's offices, the bank, etc. It always took me a good two seconds to think about what name to use or sign, depending upon where I was.

A few months later, I'd gotten into a grove with the whole mom thing, and MAK was feeling natural again.  Most importantly, I was feeling strong and decided that it was time to truly leave the past behind. Aside from all the government employees wishing me a heartfelt congratulations on my wedding and new name (before looking down at the divorce decree I'd handed them), it was a painless process....a mere couple of hours of my life.  But the outcome was momentous.  When the government gave me MAK back, something clicked for me.  I got an official do-over...and even have the piece of paper to prove it.

And until I figure out what I want to make happen with my old/new name, I'm going to monogram the shit out of stuff.

Toddler Scraps

I am a child of the 80's, so I will never forget that leaving food behind on my plate somehow affects African famine.  Growing up, uneaten heads of broccoli and stray macaroni noodles pushed to the side of my plate called for me to be reminded about the starving children in Africa.  My father would shake his head as he scraped leftover foold off of our dinner plates (my mom cooked and he cleaned up), and I just knew I was letting the children down. If my family and I were out at a restaurant (The Ground Round perhaps), and I didn't want to eat my last chicken tender, "We Are the World" or a Sally Struthers commercial would always come on in the background and I would then dutifully choke it down.  Food should not be wasted...think of the children.

These childhood experiences, coupled with my dessert-lovers' belief that baked goods are only really good on the first day, has made me a proud member of the clean-plate club.  Unless I am really REALLY full, I leave no morsel behind. It's the least I can do.

As a mom, this mindset has proved problematic.  Now I not only have to worry about offending the starving children with my uneaten food, but my son's as well.  And, since my toddler doesn't know about world hunger yet, his finicky-eater, two-year-old-self is perfectly content leaving A LOT of food behind on his plate.  And sometimes, I daresay, he doesn't even attempt to eat ANYTHING in front of him. What waste! So, I have selflessly taken on the roll of the family dog and I now eat all of the table scraps in my household.

The other day, my boy dumped half a bag of mini Lorna Doones on the floor and ran to the other side of the room to build blocks.  I quickly went over to the mess, and rather than sweep up the crumbs or make it into teachable moment about cleaning up after ourselves, I quickly picked up all the cookies and ate them. Phew, crisis averted.

In fact, my altruism has shown up a lot since my son started eating solids and I continually find myself having to right his food karma whether it be by eating the last spoonful of applesauce, half a fish stick, the bottom of a cupcake that he licked the icing off of (you don't leave cake behind at a birthday party!), cold mini blueberry pancakes, leftover oatmeal, 1/3 of a warm cheese stick, veggie straws that have fallen under the couch, and so on.  Don't even get me started on how he only eats the middle of bagels and bread and my stomach has become a pit for leftover crusts!

Now, as my clothes have become tighter, I'm faced with a dilemma.  I can't keep eating all of my food and his.  Although I could help the economy by buying a new larger-sized wardrobe, I'm trying to be fiscally responsible, so I've decided this: I will make and serve EJ's meals first and see what he doesn't finish. Then I will decide what's not totally gross (he has started picking his nose), and see what I can do.  If he miraculously cleans his plate, then I can go on to happily blend my kale smoothies and eat my ice cream (sharp contrast, I know) and not further contribute to the world hunger problem.   I'll let you know how it goes, but for good measure, I'll be increasing my contributions to our school food drives and running a 10K for hunger in the fall.  I anticipate needing to put a lot of good food juju back into the universe for this child.

Junebug

Well...it's been a while.  A week turned into two, then three and four, and then I just decided to take the whole month of June off from writing.  It WAS a busy month, but I really think I was being a brat because I entered a writing contest and didn't make it past the first round.  I mean, they were looking for people with a huge online following (people with more than 11 twitter followers like myself...who have tweeted or twatted or whatever more than 6 times), but I took it personally and subconsciously decided to pout for a bit. I'm a self-saboteur that way....if I can't do it perfectly, why even bother?

So there I was, chugging along in June, not bothering to write about any of the funny/weird/happy/sad things I was encountering.  I'll show you, contest judges, silent brooding gets you far!  I had a girls night out a (well, a girls evening out...dinner was at 6), and after some mild debauchery (that sensibly ended in time to catch the 11:37 back to the suburbs), my friend said, "you HAVE to write about this!"

"Noooo," I replied, "I'm not doing that anymore, I think.  There's noooo point to it...it's not like I'm helping anyone or anything, and my life is soooo not that interesting.  The whole thing is dumb."  And then I crossed my arms and dropped the subject.  If I could've whipped my thumb out and sucked it, I would have.  Wah wah.

Anyways, I see now that there is both no point and every point to doing this.  Life is funny, weird, happy, and sad and I have access to a keyboard.  So, mama's back.

On The Road Again

Last night I said goodbye to my car.

I actually said goodbye too...this isn't some metaphorical tidbit.  Ever since watching Disney's Love Bug when I was a kid, I've always felt that cars had some actual life to them.  Strange, I know. Anyways, my car and I had a brief moment alone, and, after glancing around the dealership parking lot to make sure no one was looking, I said a few brief words....mainly thanking it for being good to me for the past six years.

This was the first car I bought, and it saw a lot during our time together: my pre-wedding preparations and jitters, road trips with the husband, moving three times (all in dirty Jerz!), me as a terrified, single pregnant lady blasting angry girl rock, solo trips to divorce court and obstetrician appointments, and then finally, me as a nervous mom to a beautiful little boy, continually looking in her rearview mirror to check on him (listening to less angry, inspirational girl rock on a lower volume).

Recently, I was thinking about how my life has evolved, how EJ is no longer a baby, and how my car is the last remnant of my former life.  I knew then that I had outgrown it.  So, I did what any parent of one child would do, I got an over-sized SUV for all the crap I need to cart around.

I picked up my new truck last night, and as I mentioned, I had a sweet moment with my old whip.  And, when I closed its door for the last time and walked away, so began a new phase of my life.  Whatever is in store for me during this stint, I'll be facing it a little higher up from the ground, jamming to non-angry music on Pandora with EJ.

Make Me Up

EJ is funny.  He's hilarious when you give him any sort of lotion—he’ll put it on his cheek and say “Niiice, niiice” like he’s a 60-year-old Italian man. So quirky. Whenever he gets his hands on crayons, he’ll try to color on his lips.  Too cute.  And, last week, he got a hold of my brown eyeliner pencil and started to draw on his face.  “EJ, you are so silly,” I laughed…and then gulped.  He learned this from watching me. He knows how to put on makeup. 

I love makeup.  Truth be told, the feminist within does take issue with the fact that women are essentially told by society that they need a certain level of "doctoring up” to look presentable, and men just get to show up looking exactly as they look (must be nice).  But, the silly teenager within finds makeup fun, pretty, and interesting and gets a kick out of changing her look from day to day. 

Makeup is both a hobby and necessity for me, as somewhere between 2000 and 2001, the end of my eyebrows stopped growing in and what was left there fell out. They are now two brown tadpoles above my eyes and I have to fill them in and extend them every morning.  This requires eyebrow pencils, powders, and wax….I’ll spare you the details.

In the scheme of life, my eyebrow situation isn't a big deal.  People have real problems, and this is more of an annoyance.  I mean, the notion of the “five-minute face” doesn't apply to me (brows alone take five minutes!), but it’s fine.   It's also an awkward conversation to have out in the dating world when a sweaty activity is on the horizon (like hiking or jogging...get your mind out of the gutter!).  I never realized how the phrase "We need to talk..." can evoke so much panic in a beau, and learned to start the story of my brows by saying "Funny story to tell..." I also have bad eyebrow days every now and again, and can inadvertently look angry, bored, or puzzled. And, there have been prolonged periods of time where my brows have been too thin, too thick, too low, too arched, too short, and too long and no one’s told me until I’ve seen a horrendous picture and asked for feedback.  Hot days, boot-camp classes, chair massages, and rainstorms also cause me a small degree of panic, but now I roll with back-up brow tools in my purse.  And, on impromptu food shopping trips and early morning coffee runs when I just don’t feel like drawing eyebrows, I have to keep my big sunglasses on like I'm a hungover socialite. Other than that, my life isn’t impacted at all.  Eesh.

Back to EJ.  My lovely, observant son has milk and plays in my room while I get ready for work every morning.  PBS is on too, but he really gets a kick out of watching me do makeup, and being a mother hasn’t really changed my beauty routine.  Despite what other harried moms say about having no time to put on makeup, I can’t and don’t want this to be the case for me.  I like makeup and EJ can’t roll around with an eyebrow-less mom.  As he gets older and sleeps later, my morning makeup routine will not be a part of his life, and other hobbies will thankfully take precedence. But for now, it's fine that we both share a love for a good smoky eye.

Back in Action

Where did April go?  There I was, happily blogging along on a regular basis to the masses [dozens], and then all of the sudden, life got in the way.  Now it's May.

The last two weeks of April were filled with the ups and downs of normal daily living, but somehow they prevented me from writing.  To be honest, the month overall was very lackluster.  Even though I'm not existential or cool enough to get it, I was totally quoting the beginning of T.S. Eliot's The Waste Land on most days...April is the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain...

Let's see...on a Seasonal Affective Disorder note (that is a thing!), it was chilly and cloudy most days. Winter unofficially lasts in Dirty Jerz for sixth months now, and I am over it.  I don't even know why I optimistically purchased a chartreuse mini skirt from J. Crew in early March...who knows when I will ever wear it, or if it still even fits after my self-declared cupcake palooza month.  It's also probably on clearance now for $70 less than what I paid, so that will only twist the knife in deeper. Other things of note: a fifth ear infection for EJ, EJ's first overnight visit with his father, EJ moved into the 2 year-old class at daycare (big boy!), things were crazy at work, and oh yeah, I have a nice boyfriend.  Well, some of those things definitely were and are good, so April gets a small yay. (yay!)

About the boyfriend...great guy, we have a ton in common, and all things are good. I'm really only bringing him up because we did go away for a night in April, and gulp, I had to have the eyebrow discussion with him...meaning, I had to explain to him that I draw on 70% of my eyebrows in the morning and wash them off at night. I'll fine you in on that ASAP, but for now happy May, and fingers crossed for it finally feel like spring.