by any other name . . .

My bloggie friend Alfredsmom recently asked me how Mr. Hubby feels about my plans to give our baby my maiden name.

First, I'll offer an explanation as to why I chose to keep my maiden name.

1) My father immigrated here from England as a young man, leaving his birth family behind. His older brother has two sons and three daughters, so the family name (ahem, one VERY common to England) is continuing on that side of the pond with no problem. I foresee my (handsome) male cousins' (handsome) male offspring having _no_ problem starting their own families.
Meanwhile, my father has two daughters, and my sister chose to take her husband's name when they got married. If I took on my husband's name, the "stateside" lineage of my father's family would lost, name-wise. And that would be a bummer.

2) Ever since I was introduced to the concept in my first anthropology textbook, I've been enthralled with the concept of matrilineal descent. It makes more sense: in this topsy-turvey world, when a child is born, one can always be certain of the mother's identity but not the father's. From a less clinical standpoint, it honors women's unique role in society, and I'm all about keeping women from under the collective male thumb.

3) I wasn't comfortable with changing my name in response to marriage. I really like my name, I find it melodic, and am comforted by the history attached to it. My official legal and spiritual union with Mr. Hubby changed many things about my life, but I really feel that as a woman, sharing the rest of your natural life with someone does not require that you change your name. Genetically, he "belongs" to his family, and I to mine.

* ~ * ~ * ~ *

On to tackling "what last name does the baby get"

I can't offer as organized a solution, I've come to my conclusion through my own bizarre logic and by carefully sorting my emotions. THANKFULLY, Mr. Hubby is completely comfortable with his progeny having my last name, and is honoring my wishes. Our offspring are no less "his" by having "my" name, and I'm the person putting myself in physical peril in order to bring our offspring into the world. (So nyeeeeeh)

(Besides, anyone who has ever met Mr. Hubby will likely recognize his (even newborn) child in an instant; between the two of us, we're in for an atypically cute kid with a big forehead, big eyes, a pointy nose, a goofy grin and probable lack of shyness.)

PROBLEM: If I were really diligent about swaying western tradition towards a matriarchy, (or at least help the concept seem more common) I would do a metric ton of research and sort though all documents possible to trace back to my earliest female ancestor possible. Except that most of those gals have their father's last names, and then you fall into the "are you really my daddy" quagmire all over again. What if my search takes a wrong turn because great grandma somebody had a thing for hunters?

POSSIBLE SOLUTION: Legally change my last name to "Eve".
-except-

I don't feel _that_ radical about it. I figure I'll see if I can start something with this generation and let my son or daughter come to their own conclusion. Perhaps I'll just piss off genealogists, perhaps I'm contributing to honoring women in our society. Who knows.

ON A SEMI-RELATED TANGENT:
I've played a HUGE part in naming all of our collective pets, and struck gold every single time. I'm very pleased to introduce you to my girls, Suki and Lydia.
(Please excuse my crappy camera)


Suki is "guarding" her kitty-sister from thunder. Lydia is terrified enough of storms to put up with being subservient to the dog - later that evening chaos resumed.

party 'till ya drool

I attended my first baby-attended baby shower on Sunday afternoon. The 4 week old guest-of-honor peacefully nursed and napped through the festivies, and her 6 month old cousin (a Gerber baby doppelganger) was happy to offer free dental inspections to anyone who was interested. As improbable as it seems, neither tiny girl cried during the three hours - I'm sure it was a baby ploy nefariously, psychically orchestrated by my own gestating spawn . . . "stage one of breaking in Mom: give her the unreasonable impression that an afternoon with an infant is a leisurely affair"

I'm not sure what stage two involves just yet, but I'll keep you posted.

Or perhaps this _is_ stage two and stage one is related to the fact that most bland-tasting foods make me want to gag, but I seem to have no trouble eating spicy/greasy/wierd foods. For instance: I'm hungry. I'm staring at saltine crackers and a jar of peanutbutter, and shudder to think of the pasty taste. I'm also giving major consideration to ordering out General Tsao's chicken or trying to bribe a coworker into picking up Indian food for me.

Yet another recent mindbend is now anytime I hold a baby, I immediately think to myself "Is this a playdate? Would the kid be jealous to know that another baby is pawing at my breasts?" As a (lack of) sanity reference point, I am convinced that my unborn kid and my cat Michael are well acquainted already - how could they _not_ be when Michael so carefully drapes himself over my stomach during purr-fits?

But I digress. My point is to say that baby-attended showers are far more fun than regular baby showers. My fantastico Mother-in-law is hosting a shower for me next month in Mr. Hubby's city-of-origin, and I'm very excited about it. But now I'm giving consideration to having a baby shower in my own town-of-origin after the kid is here. . . . which will probably cause as much scandal as the fact that I kept my maiden name and plan on giving my last name to my offspring.

Any thoughts or opinions??

In other news: I was given a metric ton of pregnancy clothes by baby-of-honor's mother and would like to thank her by bringing over food, but know that her husband is a fantastic cook, and I'm paranoid that they wouldn't really enjoy my cooking. Other than free baby-watching (which I've offered and will be taken up on) what is a good (non-budget-bruising) way to show thanks for such generosity?

shades of green

If I were more open, this blog would be gussied up in shades of green, at least until I can get my head out of my arse.

If I could successfully, permanently "turn down the volume level" of one particular emotion, it would be jealousy. I drive myself batshit crazy with it, I was awake from 2:30am - 4:30am and could think of little else.

I've just finished devouring two books, "Baby Love" by Rebecca Walker, and "Operating Instructions: A Journal of my Son's First Year" by Anne Lamott. I use the verb "devour" because it took me three days to finish both books and while I was reading them, I felt nourished by them. These days, I find great relief to read about other women having less-than-calm reactions to pregnancy and infants; I feel much less isolated by pregnancy, I can at least hope that I'm gathering useful information, or perhaps it boils down to just being a fantastic distraction from life.

Anywho.
As much as I was loving the authors as I read their books, I was also seething with jealousy towards them.

Which makes me a horrible person.

Rebecca Walker has endured a naaaasty relationship with her own mother.
My relationship with my own mother hasn't been shiny and perfect, but we're absolutely crazy about each other, and love each other unconditionally.

So why is my heart so black that I think she's got it easy because she can afford to travel and doesn't have a paper-slinging job to report to five days a week?
Why am I bothered that she spent her pregnancy eating organic salads while I don't have the means to buy only organic food?

It gets worse.

Anne Lamott is a sober recovering alcolohic and a single mother eeking out an existance as a writer by the grace of God, and because she's developed a fantastic support network. (It must also help that she seems to have a fantastic sense of humor)

(Hoo boy) I actually found myself jealous of her strong faith (!), and worse yet, I had to stop myself from counting up how many people regularly stopped by her apartment to help her care for her son. It seems that she is close friends with a cast of thousands! Where do I sign up for that? I've been blessed with happy, stable relationships with my family, my husband, and several close friends - and yet I found myself wondering "are there enough people to bail me out when I need them?"

No pity party fuel here, I think it's more along the lines of me needing more a little more sleep, a change of perspective, and/or a break from bouts of morning sickness.

All the same, I'm nearly ashamed to look at the books I so recently enjoyed; I'm going to pack them away until someone else is pregnant and needs them. Maaaaaaybe I'll find that I'm not the only person neurotic enough to harbor even temporary jealousy towards authors of baby/pregnancy narratives.