January 29, 2005

Name That Kid

There has been a lot of hoopla in the media recently about celebrities giving their kids unusual (or just plain weird) names. That is nothing new in the South. The Tiny Kingdom has strict rules for naming children. Of course, this involves two decisions: what to name the child, and what to call the child. I don’t think a lot of parents have exercised good judgment on either the naming or calling parts.

There are specific rules for naming boys. The first one is named after the father. For some reason, men seem to be obsessed with having a son with the same name so that there are a lot of Jr.’s and III’s and even IV’s around here. The only reason we don’t have a lot of Henry the VIII’s and Thomas the X’s is that the Tiny Kingdom has not been around long enough.

So what do you call the boy? In my view, the bad idea is to call the child the same name as the father, so that for the next fifty years everyone refers to “Big David” and “Little David.” Isn’t “Little David” a bit emasculating? A better option is to give the kid a nickname, like Dave.

However, many people opt for The Awkward Other Name. Thus, if the father is John Bromberg White, instead of calling the kid “Jack,” (best choice) the kid will be called “Bromberg” or “Brom” or “Berg” or some such nonsense.

The rules change if the child is a III. These children are traditionally called “Trip” or “Tripp” or “Trey” (or even “Tres” if you are Southern-Hispanic). It is also permissible to call a III “Bo” for no apparent reason.

Subsequent boys are either given fashionable Biblical names (Noah, Ethan, Caleb, Jeremiah) or other family names (Sterling, Oakdale, Withers, Trout). If you look at a team roster in the Tiny Kingdom, you might think you were looking at a list of the members of Parliament, not a bunch of six-year-old soccer players.

The rules for girls are also widely understood. The first girl is given the mother’s maiden name, except in the most extreme cases. Thus, there are many girls with names like “Harris” and “Bradford” and “Elliott.” I suppose this is okay, although it means there are a lot of females walking around the Tiny Kingdom with male names. I personally believe this is a huge waste of girly names. I had a million names for girls picked out, and I was so sure Porter was going to be a girl that I called him “Amelia” right until the time he was born and I saw his privates. At that point I had to make a change.

The worst part, though, is that so many of the girls have hideous double names. I do not mean the entirely acceptable “Mary Anne.” I am talking “Stephanie Alexandra” or “Mary Bradford” or “Helen Elizabeth.”

There are a number of problems with this. First, a kid’s name needs to be succinct enough that you can call it loudly and quickly when the kid is in trouble without getting short of breath or forgetting it entirely. “Stephanie Alexandra” does not exactly roll off the tongue.

Another problem is that these names make the parents look indecisive. I always imagine the parents in the delivery room, looking at the newborn. The mom says through gritted teeth, “Honey, I did not just squeeze out a baby the size of a large turkey just to call her some trashy name like Colby. I do not care if it is your favorite cheese.”

And the new father says, “I know you had your heart set on Caroline. Surely we could compromise.”

How could two such otherwise sensible people agree that it would be a good idea to call the child “Colby Caroline?” What are they putting in the epidurals these days?

Some unfortunate girls are lovely in all other respects, but are saddled with names like “Edith Irene” or “Lella Ruby.” My best guess is that these children have parents who are obviously trying to please all the rich old lady relatives they have, in the hopes of ensuring their inheritances so they can (hopefully sooner rather than later) use their bequests to redo the house and add on a playroom and a master suite.

One family in town has three girls, ALL with double names! How long does it take to label each one’s lunch box? To teach each one to write her own name? To call them all for dinner? To introduce them to a stranger? (”No, this is “Daisy Mae,” not “Daisy Anne.” THAT is “Anne Bickford,” NOT “Mary Bickford.” And this is Mary Boswell, not Mary Mae.”)

Another problem I foresee is that if this keeps up, the grandchildren of these girls are really going to be carrying around some lengthy monikers. I don’t think it will be long before Colby Caroline’s granddaughter marries Mary Boswell’s grandson, and then all hell will break loose in the delivery room.

Bill recently coached a soccer game in which three girls were added to his team. Between them they had six names, and Bill never could get them straight, so in the heat of the match, he yelled “Ponytail, kick towards the goal!” and “Blue headband, pass to curly-headed girl!” It all sounded very professional.

The double name phenomenon is filtering over to the boys. Drew has two boys in his class with double names: Anthony Sean and Richard Bryant. In case you are considering blessing your baby with this type of moniker, let me remind you that these lengthy names cannot be crowded on the back of a sports jersey. These boys are known as “Ant. Sean” and “Rich. Bryant” in the Tball world.

I am also worried about what will happen if the double named children marry each other and then have to pick out name cards to put on presents. Can you fit “Merry Christmas from Edith Irene and Anthony Sean O’Malley” on a card and still have room for a Christmas themed border?

Now, you might think that this is hypocritical coming from a woman with one son named after a small Scandinavian country and another who sounds like a fat grandpa. But we followed our own rules in naming our boys. Each is named after a different grandfather. Bill’s grandfather was nicknamed “Finn” (no one seems to know why) and he went by “Finn Glamore” his entire life. Drew and Porter are named after each of my grandfathers.

Weird or not, I can write, yell and introduce Finn, Drew and Porter quickly. Their names fit easily on the back of their jerseys, and because you pay for the labeling by the letter, I am saving a lot of money compared to Anthony Sean’s parents.

I’ll admit, when I introduce Finn, I often have to say, “Finn: F-I-N-N, like a Norwegian or a Swede.” But still, I’d rather be named after a country than six old great aunts.

By the way, if you are having a baby girl and
are having trouble thinking up beautiful, feminine names, email me. I
have a huge list of names I never got to use and I am happy to share.

January 21, 2005

A Note to the Teacher

I’ll just let my email to Finn’s teacher serve as a description of my day thus far.

Dear Mrs. Zither,

When I gave birth to three boys, I was sure that although I would spend a large part of their childhoods with my butt on the bleachers watching some sport or another, I wouldn’t mind the bruises on my bottom because I would not be subject to the feminine hysterics that I inflicted on my mother. It seemed like a good trade.

Unfortunately, I have discovered that hysterics are not limited to the fairer sex, and Finn (who, admittedly, is me with a penis) has brought things full circle. After I finish this note I shall call my mom and beg for her forgiveness. I completely understand why she is gray (underneath - she colors it blonde).

At our house we place a premium on personal responsibility. Bill and I leave it to Finn to get his homework done. We are happy to help with homework if asked, but we don’t hover around to make sure it’s done, and we don’t double check his work. I’ve already been through a lifetime of homework, and frankly, that was enough for me.

Our rule is that worksheets are done before dinner, and reading can be done in bed after showering. Had Finn followed these rules, this letter would not be necessary.

Instead, Finn arrived at breakfast this morning in tears, having “forgotten” about his math sheet. I can see why - he was VERY BUSY yesterday afternoon playing basketball in the driveway, climbing up the magnolia tree to hide his brother’s panda bear, and screwing around with his legoes.

He was completely flummoxed by the concept of borrowing during subtraction, and I explained it to him the best I could, which is not saying much, as I was an English major and use a calculator for all but the most basic mathematical problems I encounter.

Finn, in contrast, is completely capable of borrowing and he did one problem by himself before his carpool came. He said that he was “gonna be in big trouble” for not doing his sheet. I agreed that this was likely and appropriate. More weeping.

Beware - Finn may try to tell you that he worked and worked on the sheet but could not understand how to do it. His total time spent on this assignment (including tears and discovery that his glasses were lost, discussed below) was approximately 9 minutes. Please impose whatever consequences you normally would for a kid who does not do his homework. Keep in mind that I have two kindergarteners who are watching everything to gauge how much they can get away with in the future.

Second, in the middle of this scene, Finn realized that he left his glasses at my mom’s yesterday. This brought on a fresh flood of tears and loud yelling on my part, I am ashamed to admit. I had major spine surgery last year and we have worked diligently with the boys to teach them to pack and unpack and keep up with their own stuff. It was frustrating for me. How can he remember the twenty facts about cirrus clouds you taught him in one day, when he cannot remember to keep up with basic personal items - a lesson I have been preaching for years? Either you are a really good teacher or I am a really bad mom. Or both.

I will get the glasses and drop them by the school, but first I have to finish my coffee and have some prayer time so that this afternoon I will greet Finn with love and kisses rather than a snarl.

Finally, Finn was a little precarious emotionally before the math sheet and glasses episodes as a result of a standoff at dinner last night as to whether he was going to eat a quarter of a strawberry or sit at the table and watch it slowly shrivel and mold. So do not be alarmed if he looks a little pale today. I assure you he will be over it soon. (And if he would eat fruits and vegetables instead of looking at them I think his memory AND his pallor would be much improved).

Sincerely,
A formerly dramatic and sexy and now just exhausted mom,
Anne Glamore

January 12, 2005

Finn Gets a Warning

Yesterday I had just gotten home from work and was checking the mail when Finn’s carpool brought him home from school. I watched as he slowly emerged from the car, dragging each leg as if it was covered in cement. He walked stoically to the back door, glancing neither left nor right, hauling his backpack behind him.

“How was your day?” I asked brightly, knowing full well that it had sucked and I would be lucky to get any details.

“Terrible. I don’t want to talk about it,” he said.

“Why not? I want to talk about it,” I said. “Was someone mean to you? Did you forget your homework?”

“No,” he said. “It’s worse. I got a warning.”

For those of you not hanging out at the elementary schools, a warning is similar to a demerit. If you accumulate four in a short period of time you have to go to the principal’s office. Finn had gotten several at the beginning of the year for talking, and we had put an end to that by imposing an inflexible rule: if you get a warning at school, you do not get your afternoon snack and have to starve until dinner. After about three weeks he got the picture, and he had not gotten a warning in months.

I was convinced that something dire had transpired because Finn had gone to the grocery store with me the day before, and we bought a rare, unhealthy snack: Cheetos. It was a real digression from our usual raisin/yogurt/pretzel snack menu. I knew he must have really screwed up to have put a rare chance at mom-sanctioned junk food at risk.

“So what did you do?” I asked.

“I said a bad word, but I didn’t know it was a bad word,” he said.

I thought a minute. I started to feel guilty. I remembered the times when I had muttered, “Come on, you asshole,” in traffic, secure (falsely?) in the knowledge that the bickering children in the back seat could not hear me. And I do tend to yell “Oh shit!” when I step on a plastic army man with bare feet, or when I get out of the shower to find that the kids have taken all the towels and are playing magic carpet with them in the driveway.

On rare occasions I might scream “Fuck!” but that would be unusual; the last time that happened was this morning when I ran in the kitchen and found Porter and Drew sucking the water out of the fish bowl with straws. Maybe all these years I should have been playing kids music in the car and literally driving myself crazy to the tune of “Old MacDonald” and “The Wheels on the Bus” instead of listening to No Doubt and Garbage. (I have always been meticulous, however, about remaining attentive while playing “Shut Your Mouth” from the album Beautiful Garbage, so I can lower the volume when Shirley half sings, half yells “We don’t give a fucking damn!”)

Even though all this thinking was making me feel sick to my stomach and like a total failure as a mom, I figured I had to hear the whole story, so I asked him what he had said.

“Hell,” he whispered. “I thought it was a place, like Iraq. I didn’t know it was a bad word.”

I pondered this.

“Did you just say ‘hell’ or did you use it in a sentence?” I asked.

“In a sentence,” he said. “I don’t want to talk about it. There’s a note in my backpack. And now I don’t get to eat Cheetos and Porter and Drew will eat them all and I didn’t know it was a bad word!” He started to cry.

I patted his back. “Let me see the note so I can see what happened. But you know there are bad words that you do not say at school, right?”

He nodded.

“What are those words?” I prodded.

“You want me to SAY them?” he asked dubiously.

“Sure. Let’s hear them. What words do you NOT say at school?”

“Stupid.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Dumb.”

“Go on.”

“Snot.”

“That’s right. Keep going.”

He took a deep breath. “Butt, stupidbutt, stupidhead, dumbhead, dumbbutt, penis, penishead, poophead, bosom, shut up!” he recited.

“You forgot one,” I told him, pointing at my eye.

“Pinkeye!” he exclaimed triumphantly.

“That’s right! Don’t ever say any of those words at school or at church,” I said.

“I know, Mom,” Finn said.

I left him outside and went to explore the contents of his backpack. I opened his folder and found a note. Here is what it said:

Mrs. Glamore:

Today in music class Finn asked Brad, “Would you rather kiss a girl or go to hell?” Brad said, “Go to hell.” This was the comment I heard first. I took them aside and told them both that we do not say that word at school. I told them that I would have to let their parents know.

Miss Hurley

It took me a minute to digest the meaning of the note. Apparently Finn was not swearing at all, but had been having a serious conversation about which of two equally icky scenarios would be the lesser of two evils. And Finn was right– he had been talking about a place. It wasn’t like he had said, “Hell, Miss Hurley! This library class seems like a waste of my damn time!” That would have been worth writing home about.

In my opinion, Miss Hurley had an abnormally low tolerance for descriptive vocabulary. I certainly did not think that Finn had said a bad word, but we have a policy of supporting the teachers. What to do?

After much thought (what would happen if Miss Hurley heard Finn say, “Screw in that light bulb” or “That dam holds a lot of water”??) and a phone consultation with Bill, I called Finn in for a talk.

I told him that Daddy and I could not break our house rule, and that because he got a warning, he would not get to have a snack that day. I explained that “hell” can be a bad word if you use it the wrong way, so do not say “Hell no!” or “Go to hell!” because that is just as bad as calling someone dumb or penisbutt.

I also told him that we did not think that saying the word “hell” when referring to a hot place where the devil lives was bad, and he could talk about hell as a place you do not want to go, but only at home and church, not at school.

He seemed to understand the distinction, but there was one issue left unresolved.

“So which would you rather do, Finn, kiss a girl or go to hell?” I asked.

He rolled his eyes. “Kiss a girl. I think hell would be even grosser.”

January 11, 2005

Shoes

I just had a hell of an experience. There is a nice, well-established kids’ shoe store in town, and when we just had one child I went there regularly. However, we now have three kids and a closet full of Finn’s old shoes. I have no idea what size the boys are supposed to be wearing. Every month or so we just go to the closet and pull out some shoes (mostly from Target) and try them on until something fits.

Drew recently switched from a 9 1/2 to a 9 because he liked the design on the 9’s better. That alerted me to the fact that I didn’t have the faintest idea whether I was injuring their feet by putting them in ill‑fitting shoes not to mention ruining any hope of an athletic scholarship down the road. It was time to get some help from the shoe professionals.

I took all three boys in and they immediately began climbing on the benches and pulling shoes off the walls. I had them line up Sound of Music style and ordered them to sit to be measured.

I pulled the sales lady, Mary Ann, aside before we started and told her that I had two concerns ‑ price and velcro. I did not want to pay more than $30 a pair, and I wanted at least one pair to be velcro so I would have fewer laces to tie each morning.

(By the way, velcro is an issue I have changed my stance on since having multiple kids. With Finn, I had the attitude that velcro was for dumbfucks, which he certainly was not. I only bought him lace up shoes, and why the hell not? I had all the time in the world to tie a pair of shoes every now and then. Now I have six shoes to tie each morning if no one has velcro and it drives me wild. Listen and learn: velcro is not lazy, it is cool and it is an immensely valuable addition to our society.)

We fit Drew first. The only pair of 9 1/2’s on the sales table were black with orange laces, and they were the kind where the heels light up red with each step. I grimaced. The color combination was hideous and suitable only for Halloween. Plus I had always sworn that we would NEVER get light up shoes, which are for kids whose moms have no fashion sense. That store would need to pay someone to take those ugly shoes home. I checked the soles. They were $15. I put them in the try on pile. They ended up fitting. I ignored my inner style guru and told him we’d get them.

Porter was next. Since Drew had gotten shoes with laces, I only showed Porter the velcro ones in his size. He got to choose between white with a dragon on the side (tacky) and white with a basketball on the side (slightly better).

“I love dwagons,” he said. “Pat pat pat!” He held the shoe in one hand and stroked the dragon with the other.

Drew was climbing on the top of the benches and jumping a full five feet to the floor. “Drew! Get off the top of the bench and sit on the floor and DO NOT MOVE!” I said menacingly. “One move and the fabulous light up shoes come off your feet!” He sat.

“Hey Porter,” I said, “You can get the dragons if you want. But why don’t you try on the ones with the basketballs just to see. Mary Ann tells me they make you go faster than the dragon shoes do.”

Mary Ann said, “Well, actually they are the exact same shoe. It’s just that the design on the side is different, that’s all.”

I glared at her.

“Come to think of it,” Mary Ann said, “they do seem to be a little lighter on the feet. That helps you with your speed when you run.” She looked at me hopefully and I nodded.

Porter tried on the basketball shoes and started running in circles around the store. “I am going really really really really fast!” he yelled.

“You sure are honey!” I hollered, as I furiously stuffed the dragon shoes into their box and shoved it under the bench. “Those will make you the fastest kid around!” I was doing well. Getting balls instead of dragons would atone somewhat for Drew’s vulgar Halloween shoes.

“Finn, come on dude. You’re next!” I shouted. “Let’s get the show on the road!” My mom always said that. I couldn’t believe I said that. It just popped out. I was embarrassed. I am embarrassed just writing that I said that.

At this point, perhaps because of all the yelling, the owner came over to assist. Mary Ann had pulled several pairs of shoes for Finn. He is harder to buy for, because he is fashion conscious, since he is my child.

Mary Ann started working on Finn’s pile of shoes, putting them on and letting him run through the store to see how fast he could go. He wasn’t loving anything she pulled out, and I leaned over and said,”It’s a problem with the K‑O‑L‑L‑E‑R.” Finn is reading now so I misspelled quickly so he wouldn’t catch on.

“What?” Mary Ann asked. I sighed. She was sort of a dingbat. I tried again.

“Do you have something B‑L‑A‑C‑K or G‑R‑A‑Y?” I asked rapidly, pointing to my black shorts.

At that point the owner stepped in and said, “I think I have something he’ll like.” She opened a box, and we peered inside. Finn gasped. The shoes were dark gray Nikes that looked like a loafer on the top. On the bottom, the treads looked like small red corks protruding from the sole, so that if you made a footprint in the sand it would be in the shape of a shoe with lots of nickel shaped circles inside.

“Mom, those look fast,” he said solemnly.

“They sure look something,” I said.

He tried them on. He ran around. It was over. He was in love.

“Alright, I guess we’re ready,” I said, and I marched up to the cash register to pay. Mary Ann rang up Drew’s shoes ($15), Porter’s shoes ($21) and then Finn’s.

“Something is wrong,” I said. “You must have rung those up twice. That says $61.”

“You’re right,” Mary Ann said. “I only brought out shoes under $30 for him to try on.”

Just then the owner stepped behind the counter. “Oh, those are $61. All the boys his age love them. I didn’t know that price was a PROBLEM,” she said in a saccharine, evil voice.

“With three boys, just about everything is a problem,” I said icily. “Wait just a moment.”

I had to gather my thoughts. The lady had screwed me, no doubt about it. But it wasn’t Finn’s fault. I would have told him up front that the shoe was off limits if I had known the price. He understands that we consider price when shopping. I looked at him. He and his brothers were standing by the door, showing off their shoes. I shrugged my shoulders, and rationalized that Porter and then Drew would be wearing them in a couple of years, thus bringing the actual cost of the Nikes to $20 per kid, assuming neither shoe got lost until the hand-me-down process was fully completed.

I forked over the money, but I am telling all my friends about the sneaky bait and switch.

January 10, 2005

Fish

My family’s population changes rapidly. We recently introduced two new members to the household: Speedy and Brownie Goldfish. Brownie was brownish and Speedy was gold with white dots. They were the most unusual goldfish in the tank at the store and Finn picked them out himself. Like his mom, he can’t have anything ordinary. Who wants goldfish that are really gold?

Apparently I made a rookie mother mistake by buying two very distinctive looking goldfish. They didn’t blend into the goldfish crowd. Now I know that you should buy only ordinary looking plain gold goldfish which can easily be substituted for one another. Too late for that.

Our new pets were a disaster from the beginning. It soon became clear that Speedy was fast and aggressive and was preventing Brownie from eating. Speedy overate each day while Brownie grew visibly thinner. In desperation, I bought two types of fish food—flakes that floated on the top for Speedy, and chunks that sank to the bottom of the bowl, where Brownie spent most of his time hunkering down in fear.

Each evening, with Bill and the boys anxiously watching, I’d sprinkle the flakes on the surface of the water. When Speedy swam up for the food, I’d strategically aim chunks at Brownie so they would float down to him and he could eat. In the background the boys cheered, “Go Brownie! You can do it!”

Brownie did begin to eat, but by then the water was growing cloudy and even Speedy was no longer living up to his name. Friday morning when I went to Finn’s room to get his underwear I discovered the worst—a floater (Speedy) and a sinker (Brownie).

I kept Finn out of his room until carpool. Once we were safely loaded in the van, I casually mentioned that Brownie and Speedy did not look so good to me and that I thought I would take them to the fish doctor after Jazzercise. I told him that doctors are very talented, but they cannot always save sick fish, and so we should pray for Speedy and Brownie in case they did not recover.

So in our driveway we prayed, “Dear God: Please help Brownie and Speedy get well if it is your will. If not, please take care of them in fish heaven. Amen.” Then we picked up the Sherlocks and I dropped everyone at school.

As I drove to Jazzercise, I mulled over the implications of the weakened condition of our fish and the probability that fish fatalities were in our future. It was obvious that I had to take some sort of action quickly. Should I buy look-a-likes for Speedy and Brownie, or should I let our boys experience death first hand?

Stupid me. I shouldn’t have spent so much time on this issue, as I discovered at the pet store that we had evidently bought the only two goldfish in our town that were not solid gold. There were no Speedy and Brownie imposters at all. Apparently the boys would have to face death head on.

I decided to use a different strategy and asked to see the toughest fish they had. A skinny teenager showed me some Bettas, most of which were blue, and told me they were just about impossible to kill. That seemed like a good recommendation to me so I bought an ordinary looking blue one and a net.

Having taken some action, I went to work, where I took a second to research Bettas on the internet. I discovered that they are also called Siamese fighting fish and males cannot live with other males or they will fight to the death.

I hadn’t been at the office ten minutes when the school called to say that I needed to pick up Drew immediately because he was showing signs of pinkeye. I assured them I was on my way, which was a lie because first I had to go home and dispose of the fish corpses so that Finn would not see them.

I sped home and jumped out of the car with the new blue fish and the net. By this time Brownie was also floating and I scooped him from the fishbowl with the net and flushed him with no trouble. When I tried to scoop Speedy, he moved and began to wriggle feebly. He was alive, sort of.

What a moral dilemma! I already had the Betta and I had no idea if Speedy was male or female. I certainly didn’t want to stage a fatal fish fight in front of the kids. After some reflection, I let Speedy swim around the toilet bowl a few times and then I euthanized him. I don’t think he would have lasted long anyway.

I flushed several times in case he got stuck in the lines, recovered and started swimming toward home. Then I drove to school and picked up Drew, who just had a red eye as far as I could tell.

When Finn came home, I told him that sadly, Brownie and Speedy did not make it. However, the fish doctor just happened to have a blue fish that had belonged to a five year old boy who did not take care of him, and that I knew that Finn was responsible so I volunteered to adopt him. Finn was thrilled with his cool blue fish and named him Max.

Now we pray nightly for Speedy and Brownie and I keep a close eye on Max for signs that he’s fading.