Stupidhead Sillypants

Have you ever seen that episode of The Simpsons where Homer and Marge are trying to come up with a name for their unborn son? Marge keeps suggesting perfectly respectable names and Homer repeatedly shoots them down as he fires back possible playground taunts. The anticipation is palpable when Marge finally suggests Bart. I waited for the punch line that never came as they agreed on the name and left me screaming “FART... FART YOU JACKASS... BART RHYMES WITH FART!” Of course I realise the fact they completely missed something so obvious is the punch line but I never thought I’d find myself the butt of the same joke. I’ve worked in a childcare setting for the majority of my working life and if I’ve learned anything it’s that children are cruel. It’s true that at some point in life all children will be mocked, regardless of their parent’s attempts to prevent it. Still, I wanted to do what I could to insure my daughter was not an easy target. Unfortuntely it seems I have failed her.

When we finally settled on the name Gaia I racked my brain for months trying to figure out any possible associations or childish rhymes. The worst I could think of with was GAY-A (which she’s already been referred to by pretty much everyone who’s only seen her name in print). Frankly I’d like to believe she’d respond to something so unoriginal and inoffensive with the same casual eye roll I perfected after years of being called Reese’s Pieces. It’s a move that clearly states “is that the best you can come up with?” Then last night I was tickling her and calling her by the various pet names she’s becoming known as. It was all Gaia-bears and Gaia-roos when it came over me in a wave... Gaiarrhea... the kids at school are going to call my daughter Gaiarrhea. How could I not have realised sooner? That combined with her dramatic, if short, history of gastrointestinal distress and I’m more than a little concerned. I guess all I can do now is prepare her for the possibility and hope she doesn’t end up pooping her pants at her first day of Kindergarten. Although I guess if she’s a five-year-old pants pooper I’ll have bigger problems to deal with than her classmates realising her name rhymes with diarrhea.

"Gaiarrhea!?! OH SHIT!"

As far things go Gaiarrhea is pretty rough, but nicknames have special place in our family. I can count on one hand the number of times my husband has referred to me as Risa in the last year. As far as he’s concerned my name is Chancho. For Jose nicknames are the way he shows his love. The way you know you’ve been accepted into his world. Calling me Chancho seems cute when it was just the two of us, but when we were in public situations I can’t help but notice people cringing. For those of you who have no idea why, I’ll enlighten you. Chancho is Spanish for pig. Of course it doesn’t help that I’ll always be a little bit chubby. I’m sure most casual observers think Jose is being mildly abusive, but it wasn’t my ample hips that inspired the nickname, it was Nacho Libre.

TV on cruise ships is a funny thing. In addition to the regular circulating programming for the guests, the crew has three extra channels, my favourite being one that plays the same movie in a constant loop for weeks. Shortly after Jose signed onto our last ship Nacho Libre was this movie. I’m pretty sure he watched it upwards of two hundred times in the course of the month we finally became a bonefide couple.

For anyone who’s seen Nacho Libre you might remember Chancho, the chubby little orphan who looked up to Nacho. The nickname began innocently enough over an inside joke about the similarities between Chancho and me in my Adventure Ocean uniform. Shockingly the one-style-fits-all board shorts weren’t so flattering on my big-girl thighs. Not to mention the way my overstuffed jacket pockets made me look as if I had an oh-so-becoming beer gut that sagged over my waistband. I consider the fact that I wore this uniform day in and day out and Jose still managed to fall in love with me a testament to my awesomeness.

Before long the joke had morphed into an intellectual character study where Chancho’s ultimate belief in Nacho became a symbol for mine and Jose’s growing connection. Of course, I know it’s a little ludicrous to let two comedic characters from a ridiculous (if hilarious) movie be symbols for our love but so it is, and now that the name has officially stuck, so it always will be. That’s the thing about nicknames anyway; the good ones are always born from inside jokes and secrets and walk the line of appropriateness. Plus as far as I’m concerned Jack Black is my own personal cupid. In Jose’s mind things were rocky between us when I was Risa, and then he got to the Navigator of the Seas where I was re-born as Chancho and suddenly it was all rainbows and roses.

And it’s not just the nickname that’s stuck. Jose and I now celebrate Chanchoversaries and give each other Valenchancho presents. We share in the joy of a Merry Chanchomas and blow out the candles on our shared Chanchoday. We even have a Chancho theme song (in its original form and a dance remix). It’s been over a year since I’ve gone to bed without hearing him sing “Eres mi Chancho, mi unico, unico Chancho.” When we got married we automatically started referring to ourselves as Mr. and Mrs. Chancho. When we found out I was pregnant we were having a Chanchito or Chanchita of course. Now that Gaia is no longer a fetus as predicted he rarely calls her by her name. She started out as Gai-ita, a nod to Jose-sita, his mother’s pet name for him no doubt, but lately he’s been calling her Chancho-Mono, our little pig monkey, and I know it’s going to stick. Chancho because she’s ours, and Mono because of the way she bounces in continuous motion as we talk to him on Skype.

I’ve grown quite attached to being called Chancho and I hope our baby girl always feels as special as I do as an object of her father’s nicknaming quirk. The truth is, when you grow too old for childish playground rhymes that special feeling is the point of a true nickname. And if nothing else let’s be honest, anything’s better than Gaiarrhea. Can I get an Amen?

Postcards From the Edge

I met Jaydeen working as a counsellor at a summer camp when I was fifteen. We bonded over our mutual love for men, babies and questionable situations. When I got pregnant she was among the first people I told, mainly because she always knows the right thing to say, but also because she was my boss and I needed to know if I was going to have to resign from ships. In the nine weeks between the time I found out about the pregnancy and finally found a job I had a lot of time on my hands to harass her at work via email. Below are some of my favourite conversations.

July 30, 2008 (5 Weeks Pregnant)

Jaydeen – OK, so I am reading a book and there is a character named Venice because that's where she was conceived. So I was thinking... Celona?

Me – Haha! I was actually pondering Estrella as the middle name regardless of gender. That would be the infamous Barcelona "street beer" we got smashed on pre and post-coital. Tacky? It means star. We'll see what Jose thinks of that. I think the name conversation will take months.

Jaydeen – Estrella for a girl, awesome. I don't think Estrella will fly for a guy's middle name. Too feminine, especially with the "ella" at the end. Jose won't go for it... you might as well name your future son "Fairy". Dear future baby - If she goes with Estrella, I tried to help.

Me – Keep in mind though Jay... it's Spanish right so the double 'l' is pronounced as a 'y'. I think it makes it a million times less feminine. Besides... it's a middle name. No one cares about the middle name. It's true. Plus, if it's a boy he's going to be WAY more attractive than all the other little boys anyway so having a girly middle name can only serve to give him perspective.

Jaydeen – I speak español, I know the pronunciation... just throwing it out there. I do agree a boy would be beautiful, as long as he doesn't get Jose's ginormous head. Man Risa, I'm so excited. I already love this baby so much!

Me – I know you speak español... I was just reminding you lest you forget. Jose's head really isn't that big... I don't think. What about Rambla or Ramblas for the boy middle name? I don't think it's nearly as cool but the significance stands. Just keep your fingers crossed that all your little God babies don't get named after characters from Nacho Libre. If it was up to Jose we'd have little Chancho, Nacho and Ramses. Think on that. We shouldn't get too excited though Jay... I haven't even gotten my first ultrasound and gotten a viable heartbeat yet. Anything could happen at this stage. Anyway... now that I've been an official Debbie Downer I think I'm going to go eat some Mac and Cheese.

Jaydeen – You made me laugh so hard! In Barcelona for the next two days so I’ll have to be careful of roaming sperm attempting to impregnate me. And I understand the point that you're at with the pregnancy. Most people don't share news until three months so I am with you this whole way!

Me – Watch out... Barcelona is tricky. I think not having sex with your Latin boyfriend while you're secretly ovulating might help. We were asking for trouble really. Just keep those legs crossed.

August 28, 2008 (9 Weeks Pregnant)

Good Morning!! I just wanted to let you know that since we talked about two and a half hours ago I've thrown up no less than three times. The last one was the best... I didn't notice the chunk of regurgitated apple pie in my hair until it hit me in the face when I tried to get back in bed. Whoever said pregnancy was magical must have also been on meth.

September 1, 2008 (10 Weeks Pregnant)

Hopefully I'm not speaking too soon BUT... I DIDN'T THROW UP TODAY!!!!!!!!!!!!! Just so you understand the magnitude this is the first day since early July I haven't barfed at least once. I'm telling you Jay... this pregnancy thing blows hard. Does that make me a horrible person? Seriously though... don't do it.

September 7, 2008 (11 Weeks Pregnant)

Me – So I've been watching old episodes of ANTM and Project Runway so the baby comes out FIERCE. I know... I'm brilliant.

Jaydeen - That is oh so clever. Did you see the brand new one that started last week?

Me - Yes I did. That episode was great because it'll teach the baby tolerance should he or she ever decide they're transgendered or have to stand up for someone who is. Oh ANTM... it should be on TLC (the LEARNING channel) really.

PS. Did I tell you I`ve started calling the baby UBER-FETUS because it's already far superior to other spawn??

Jaydeen - Are you keeping a diary of this shit? Honestly.

September 24, 2008 (13 Weeks Pregnant)

I'm freaking out. I didn't know that this happened once the baby starts kicking. It's like an alien trying to escape. It doesn't look pleasant. EEK. Not pleasant. Seriously... why don't people tell you your baby is going to try and escape through your tummy prior to birth?


Finally, just for kicks, and because I`m enjoying this little stroll down memory lane, here`s a favourite from the week leading up to Gaia’s birth.

March 10, 2009 (38 Weeks Pregnant – 2 Days to Delivery)

Me – I took the day off today because I'm exhaustamified and now that I'm all napped out and bored I just wanted to remind you that you'll be here in FOUR DAYS.... Woot! Woot! You better be excited bitches! I may be gigantic and tired and boring and living in a house with only two chairs BUT we're gonna have good times!! Oh and I made some cupcakes that look suspiciously like boobs... I didn't realise until it was too late. Whoops. If you're lucky there may be some boob-cakes left when you arrive.

Jaydeen – Save me a BOOB-CAKE! Or half a boob-cake. I am OK with half because I am majorly dieting. I have this image of me coming back to work and telling everyone that I didn't go to Saskatchewan, but in fact went to fat camp.

Me – I hate you tell you this Jay... but I think visiting your pregnant friend is the exact opposite of going to fat camp. Today for lunch I had a protein smoothie, three boob-cakes, numerous scoops of icing and an entire box of Kraft dinner (extra creamy). Oh, and I added some cheddar to the KD.... and by some I mean two handfuls. When I got your email I was seriously considering getting off my ass for the fudgcicles in the freezer. Seriously.

A Rose By Any Other Name (An Epilogue)

This long weekend Gaia and I are lucky enough to have a visit from Rachel, one of my favourite Vancouverites and official auntie/baby stylist. Being around Baby G seems to have sparked a pretty solid case of baby fever in my previously anti-baby friend which, of course, led us to spend our evening poring over The Baby Name Bible. Amongst debates over the validity of colour names (both for) and a struggle to imagine what type of person would name their baby Bran, I found myself thinking of our battle to name Baby G. Here’s how we finally came to our conclusion.

GAIA (GUY-ah) ~ Greek, “Earth Mother” ~ The name of the Greek mythological earth goddess and universal mother.

My heart broke a little the day Jose put an official vito on the baby name I’d been coveting since my early teens. From that point on I couldn’t imagine any suggestion he made standing a chance. Call it selfish, but I dare you to feel differently should you ever find yourself in the same situation. On my first night in Peru, while sitting in the sand and watching the moonlight on the ocean I finally asked Jose what he thought we should name the uber-fetus. He suggested Gaia without missing a beat. In his mind, her name was Gaia from the start. Depending on his mood when you ask him his likely to give you one of two versions of the official name story. The first one has him waxing academic about mythology and his time in Greece. The other has him extolling the virtues of a video game he was obsessed with in the months of unemployment he went through while we made our first attempts to get him into Canada. I’ll leave it to you to decide which one sounds more plausible.

It took a lot of convincing, but in the end I gave in to his beautiful accent and the way he looked when he called my belly Gaia. Plus it just seemed right to tell the baby her papi had chosen her name. It provided a kind of proof that he loved her from the start, even though he was so far away. My concerns about mispronunciation and spelling errors, while valid, seem silly now that I’ve met the baby who was on the inside for so long. She was always meant to be Gaia. I’m sure of it.

CELONA (suh-LOE-nuh)

I fell in love with Barcelona the minute I stepped off the boat with Jose on our first overnight stay in the city. I walked around entranced with the energy of Las Ramblas, drinking “street beer” and listening to locals shout in lispy Spanish. It was our first official date, almost a year after we met. We spent two months exploring Barcelona every chance we got. Port Vell, the gothic quarter, Parc Guell, the Aquarium, La Sagrada Família, the marketplace and of course Las Ramblas, the place that started my love affair with the city – we loved it all. We spent our last night in Barcelona after a week apart, when the ship’s second overnight visit coincided with my European vacation. It was “street beer” and people watching again, but this time fate saw fit to bring us our baby girl. In my life story the night of her conception is among my favourite chapters.

Months later I was telling the story to my friend and Gaia’s eventual Godmother, Jaydeen. About a week later she emailed me this:

“OK, so I am reading a book and there is a character named Venice because that's where she was conceived. So I was thinking... Celona?”

I think it was a joke but frankly, I couldn’t have come up with anything more perfect.

We went Latin with her last name taking the paternal surnames from both sides (no hyphen thankyouverymuch) and saddling her with a double dose of unpronounceable fun (only seven syllables long). You’d be surprised how hard it is to try to explain to people that you, your husband and your baby all have different last names. Call me naive, but I thought it was pretty commonplace these days? Naming the baby was no easy feat but I’m more than satisfied with our choice. If nothing else I’m just glad we didn’t have a boy... if that was the case it’s likely the poor little guy still wouldn’t have a name.

PS. Here’s a pic of our little trio enjoying the sunshine this afternoon.

A Rose by Any Other Name...

At the risk of sounding like a complete freak I’m going to share something about myself here. As a child, I had imaginary children. Now, I know a lot of kids have imaginary friends but I was the six-year-old who had imaginary pregnancies, imaginary births and a whole houseful of imaginary spawn. At one point it got so bad that my favourite pastime was to pour over old catalogues until I found models that could possibly be my future children and collage them into family portraits and eventually timelines that stretched across our living room floor and scanned over fifty years of births, deaths, weddings and graduations. My imaginary children had personalities, hopes and dreams and, always a stickler for realism I’d throw in the odd genetic disease or stint in rehab just to keep them on their toes. More important then their imagined life though was their imaginary names. I even went so far as to name my imaginary husbands and practice the potential surname choices (should I use a hyphen, take his name, or, as became common practice when I hit grade three, abandon the whole husband concept and go the route of immaculate conception ending up a functioning single mother of ten / paediatrician / artist?). I found the concept of naming children fascinating. The power! The influence! The sheer fun of combing through baby name books! It was like a drug and I was hooked.

Fast forward to today and the thought of naming a baby has become the bane of my existence. Of course, I had my favourite names long since chosen and had always assumed they would just be given out in some methodical order as spawn actually starting shooting from my loins. Somehow though, the minute I found out I was pregnant, I became panicky about having to actually give the baby inside of me a name months down the road. I mean, what right did I have anyway? Thus began a long existential debate about entitlement and imposing my personality and choices on a baby who might become someone completely different then I imagined. I went in circles. I had nightmares about birth certificates and baby announcements. What if I unknowingly saddled the kid with a horrible name? What if I didn’t realise possible associations or rhyming words? What if I offered up a smart kid name and ended up birthing a jock? The possibilities for disaster were endless. Then I realised, before I got too far ahead of myself I should probably talk to Jose.

In one of the many naïve assumptions I have made throughout my life, I assumed Jose wouldn’t care what we named the baby. However, after presenting my top girl and boy name choices and waiting for the expected casual agreement, I was shocked to hear the utter disgust in his voice. It became clear immediately that this was going to be tougher then I thought. At my twenty-week ultrasound the doctor surmised that the uber-fetus was most likely a girl. Not seeing any “boy parts” he promised me confirmation at my thirty-two week ultrasound and sent me on my way. Again naively, Jose and I spent all of our time focussing on names for our little chanchita (the thought of a chanchito now firmly out of our minds). After literally going name by name through a thousand page baby book and looking at no end of online sites we finally settled on a name he put forward the first night I arrived while we were walking along the beach in Punta Hermosa. I’m not gonna lie, I don’t love the name, but I got sucked in by his accent and the way he smiled every time he called the baby by it when he talked to my belly. Plus, the name we finally chose matches the picture I have in my head of the baby. It’s not what I’d always imagined, but somehow, it fits the baby we made together… I think.

Of course, the end of January hit and I went in for my final ultrasound and the response to my eager insistence on gender confirmation was a chuckle and the response “the baby is being shy today”. So of course, it was back to the drawing board. As tough as choosing a girl name had been, choosing a name for a boy is certifiably impossible. Thankfully, throughout all the baby name drama, we both agreed that the name should be short and unique (no Jose Miguel juniors here). However, beyond that, Jose and I couldn’t have more different opinions. You can blame a difference in culture, since it is true that a surprising amount of the names I came up with sound like dirty words en español, or the difficulties of long distance, but the truth is we’re just different. As it stands today, if the uber-fetus does end up with an uber-penis, he will not have a name and yes, this stresses me out. Unfortunately, the choosing of a boy name happens to be coinciding with my ultra-sensitive-emotional phase so that’s just the way it goes. Worse case scenario I might have to pull out my old timelines and gaze into the eyes of my imaginary children until a name jumps out at me. Until then, I stand firm in my assertion that if nothing else my son will not be named Thor. Jose may have been half joking when he suggested it, but don’t pretend you’re not all on my side now. Ahem.

PS. The Baby Name Bible by Pamela Redmond Satran and Linda Rozenkrantz is amazing. Go buy it. Now.