The Case of the Quirky Ladybug

The Case of the Quirky Ladybug, newly reopened for investigation, is officially underway now.

Shortly after my earlier post, August contacted a special-needs consultant that he's friends with, while I read up a little on Asperger's. What we found out was intriguing. Well, it's intriguing to us. You're allowed to skip this post if you just can't immerse yourself in the inner workings of someone else's child. ("Doing My Best," who commented on my first post -- you should find this discussion interesting and familiar, as I did your comment.)

This week, I talked with the consultant, Sandra, myself. I positively fell in love with her. She affirmed my concerns about Ladybug, but also let me dismiss some of the quirks as "kid things." She was genuinely interested in helping, and she made me laugh quite a bit. It was a relief to talk with someone who understood what it is like living with a quirky child.

It appears that Ladybug's primary symptoms aren't necessarily Asperger's. They're related more to sensory integration (SI) disorder. (As Sandra said, "All Asperger's children have SI, but not all SI have Asperger's.") I'd read up on SI before, but we revisited it and now can see that Ladybug exhibits the three major qualifications of auditory SI: sensitivity to loud noises, eats primarily carbohydrates, and does not handle transition well.

I was surprised when she asked about Ladybug's diet. "We often call these children 'carbivores,'" Sandra said. What do you know, that's what August and I have called Ladybug for years. It turns out that SI children have too much yeast in their digestive systems, which gives off toxins, affecting their nervous systems. They crave carbs because that's what the yeast thrives on.

Secondly, their carbohydrate diet contains too little fat. Evidently, it's fat that forms a sheath around our nerves, buffering us from noises, shocks, and the world in general. SI children don't have that buffer, so everything hits their system as intense and jarring. Ladybug is actually fortunate that her only problem is auditory sensitivity; other children have trouble with everything from the feel of socks to food textures.

The first steps we've taken are to change what Ladybug eats. This week I've served her meat and vegetables, and considerably fewer carbohydrates. Is this easy for a mother who builds her meals around rice, potatoes, or pasta? (Everybody: Noooo.) She hasn't surfaced from her books long enough to pay attention to the change in diet, so it's going easily on her part. Plus, I sprinkle acidophilus powder on her food (to counteract the yeast). You can imagine how delighted she is to have to take vitamins for her frail constitution. This is Lady "Am I Pale" Bug, after all. Next week we'll add fish oil, which helps the nervous system. Did you know that fish oil comes in flavors now? Did you know that you can get cod liver oil in strawberry? Doesn't that sound like a bad joke?

Sandra remarked (as did the commentor on my first post) that it's astonishing what accomodations you make without thinking about it. One boy, she said, would wears socks as long as his parents cut the toes out of them. "They didn't think much about it. As if it's a perfectly normal thing to cut the toes out of socks." So she asked them if their son had problems with the food touching each other. "Oh, that's not even an issue," the dad replied. "We buy divided plates." We laughed, because a moment before, I'd said, "Ladybug is our least picky eater," and Sandra replied, "Except that she won't eat meat." Right. Except for the exclusion of an entire food group.

It's too soon to tell if these relatively simple steps will make any dramatic changes, but I can't help thinking she's been a little more even-keeled, and less prone to disappear into her room because "everything was too crowded." If she does indeed show improvement, then we can discuss therapy, or explore if SI is the extent of her troubles. As it is, I'm absolutely ecstatic that I've found some way to help her, and that I also understand why she reacts the way she does.

More bulletins as events warrant.

Weekend Frolics (or Not)

It was a jolly weekend here at Chez Mairzy. First Dilly, then Titan, and finally Ladybug got a 24-hour virus. Ladybug was actually very concerned that she wouldn't get it, despite languishing on the couch and asking in a broken voice, "Am I pale, Mama?" When she did get sick, I called August on his cell phone: "Rejoice with Ladybug, for she has finally thrown up and is as special as Dilly and Titan now."

Note that I called August on his cell phone: a business trip cropped up Friday, so on Sunday afternoon he was flying across the country. Fortunately the worst of the upchucking party was over by then, so I didn't have to heap dark thoughts upon every one of the three thousand miles he traveled away from us.

(Completely random side note: Isn't it absolutely astounding that we can talk about traveling three thousand miles... no, six thousand miles... in a single weekend? Occasionally I realize that even if I don't have a flying car and automated housecleaning staff, we really do live in a science-fiction world.)

All three children are fine now, and so far I haven't fallen prey to the bug. I'm also ignoring the hulking, menacing monster of laundry that is lurking in my laundry closet. Whew, after weathering all that, I'm all for collapsing on the couch and taking a couple of days off.

Please don't tell me it's only Monday night.

It's Got to Be True Love

August the Precise and Mairzy the Slapdash made up some hot chocolate for ourselves. I like mine a good deal richer than he likes his.

Mairzy: I'll bet I used half the amount of water for my packet than you did.

August: I used exactly the amount they said to on the box.

Mairzy (rolling eyes): Yes, of course you did.

August: I, um, used a measuring cup to make sure.

Mairzy (screeching): A MEASURING CUP to make HOT CHOCOLATE?! And to think that I SLEEP with this person!

Remarks and Retorts

And here you have an example of cheerful plagiarism.

A pregnant friend sent around the email below. Now, what kind of person takes a friend's funny email and saves it to disk to improve it and make it funnier? The same sort of person who then posts it on her anonymous blog without telling her friend. I'm not sure this person is a good influence on you, but it's your call. Anyway.

It's a mix of my words and hers, and I like most of it, but I just can't come up with some snappy answers for a couple of them. Any suggestions are appreciated. Obviously I'm good at building on others' work. By the way, I'm not actually pregnant right now, but I have a great deal of sympathy for my friend who got all these remarks.

***
What They Say, and What You Don't Say...

1.) YOU DON'T LOOK LIKE YOU'VE GAINED ANYTHING
This is a lie.

2.) BUT YOU'RE ALL BELLY
This is another lie. I’m actually all belly, hips, and double chins. But this lie is better than the first one.

3.) YOU'RE DUE WHEN? OH, MY GOSH YOU HAVE A LONG WAY TO GO STILL!
And here I was planning for the first full-term six-month pregnancy in history. Darn it.

4.) OH WOW! YOU'LL BE PREGNANT DURING THE HOTTEST MONTHS OF THE YEAR!!!
And I’ll be in pain when I’m in labor, and I don’t need you to tell me that, either.

5.) WHAT DO YOU MEAN THE ULTRASOUND SHOWS THE BABY WEIGHS TWO POUNDS? I WOULD'VE GUESSED MORE LIKE 6!
Good thing you didn’t because I get violent after 3 pounds.

6.) BUT YOU'RE SO BIG ALREADY. DO THEY HAVE YOUR DUE DATE RIGHT?
They do, because they know the date of my last period. Trust me, they KNOW the date of my last period. They have a morbid interest in it, and manage to work it into most conversations. “Hi, Mairzy. How are you? When was the date of your last period?” “Hello, Mairzy? I’m calling to let you know that you have an appointment with us tomorrow. When was the date of your last period?” “Mairzy, for insurance purposes we need your social security number and the date of...”

7.) ARE YOU SURE YOU'RE NOT HAVING TWINS?
[drawing a blank here]

8.) YOU LOOK REALLY TIRED/UNCOMFORTABLE.
And you look ugly, but only because I’m feeling so tired and uncomfortable.

9.) YOU LOOK ALL SWELLED UP. IS SWELLED UP A WORD? BECAUSE YOU LOOK IT.
No, the word is 'swollen,' as in, "If I punched you in the nose it would become swollen."

So, what is okay to say? Tell me I look cute, that you like my shirt, my jewelry, my pedicure rocks, the color I'm wearing looks good on me... things you would say to a non-pregnant person. If what you're about to say to me is obvious or because you're trying to be funny... skip it. Chances are someone else has said it already. If you really have nothing to say, just give me cash.

Bitter Cold

It was cold today. Anytime we had to go out, we rushed as quickly as possible to the next available shelter. At church we all looked at each other and shivered and said, "It's bitter outside!"

This afternoon, we got an email from August's grandmother in Canada. "I remember the day your dad was born," she wrote (it being my father-in-law's birthday). "It was 22 degrees below freezing on the Fahrenheit scale."

August and I looked at each other and shivered and said, "It was 20 degrees ABOVE freezing today." That's a forty-degree difference. That's the difference between 70 and 30. Between spring and winter.

Suddenly I feel like going outside and sunbathing on the trampoline.

Exercise in Futility

Dear Better Homes and Gardens,

This month's issue being an After-Holidays issue, there's a lot of column space dedicated to getting in shape. There's also a spread of twelve different cakes to try for Valentine's Day, but I mention that only in passing. In your "Healthy You" section, you outline how to develop a regular walking-for-exercise habit. You suggest that for motivation I enter a charity 5K walk, or contact the humane society for volunteer dog-walking. To banish any lingering grumbles, your fitness expert addresses the usual excuses not to exercise: Too Tired, No Time, Not Enough Time For Extended Workout... She fells them with easy, doable solutions.

"Got any more exercise excuses?" Well, yes. Three of them, actually.

I have Kids, something that never seems to intrude in your blissful exercise plans. Have you ever tried to exercise with kids, BH&G? I have. Kids don't settle back and leave you to your exercise; they get involved. The six-year-old flings around leg-stretches that would prove fatal if you tried it yourself. The five-year-old talks constantly about what good exercise he's doing are you watching Mama see what I'm doing I'm exercising see Mama? And the one-year-old thinks it's high fun when Mama starts to do situps, and plops herself on your tummy, bounces, and tries to stick her foot in your mouth. Try doing that ten minutes, three times a day.

And walking. Have you ever tried to walk for exercise with kids, BH&G? I have. It impacts my parenting negatively.

There is never a time during my day when I have just the baby to throw in the stroller. That's one of the downsides of homeschooling, I suppose. Or maybe the people in your world have an on-demand nanny service. Me, I'm lucky to get out of the house by 9 p.m. just to walk around the block three times.

Not that I begrudge your cheery advice. It must be nice to be oblivious.

Got any more suggestions?

Oregano, Curry, Lemon Pepper, Oh My!

I am very pleased with myself, and when I'm pleased with myself, I like to share it with everyone else.

The other night for supper, I cut two boneless-skinless chicken breasts in half. I made a little aluminum-foil bowl for each one and squeezed them into a casserole dish. Then I seasoned each one differently: oregano, curry, lemon-pepper, and honey-ginger.

At August's suggestion, I made up some unflavored couscous. It turned out to be a brilliant addition. Not only did we get to have four different flavors for one meal, but you could drizzle the broth of your choice on your couscous.

I have a new company dish. Anyone want to come over?

Food Fights

I thoroughly enjoy cooking, but I'm not a "foodie." When I get in the kitchen to create, I make good, familiar food: Italian, barbecue, and close enough to authentic Southern to taste good but not actually kill you. I don't often branch out into exotic dishes that involve, say, eggplant and saffron.

The other day, I was feeling bold and creative. I found a bottle of red cooking wine in our pantry. (Surely this gives you an idea of how unsurprising my cooking is, if red wine is a daring choice.) I made up a red-wine-honey-rosemary sauce, poured it over chicken breasts, and let it simmer. August, I knew, would be most impressed.

My children were not. Ladybug wandered into the kitchen and wrinkled her nose. "What do I SMELL?" I am still training my children that criticizing Mama's cooking is walking really close to the death penalty. I snapped, "It's not for you. I'm cooking broccoli for you and Titan." They love broccoli (bragging here) with butter and dill weed.

Not deflected, Ladybug wailed, "It smells like mud soup!"

"Get out of the kitchen."

A few minutes later, as the savory aroma and red wine and rosemary filled the kitchen, Titan ran through.

A word about Titan. He's lucky that he isn't known on this blog as "Upchucky." This child has always had a massive gag reflex. Before Titan was born, I had a horror of vomit. Thanks to him, that's a fear I've confronted and conquered. It's getting better as he gets older, but I'm looking forward to turning the care and cleaning of him over to his wife.

So, Titan ran through the kitchen. "Something smells bad!" he wailed.

"Go out of the kitchen!"

Titan clapped a hand over his nose, ran into the back room with the new carpet, and... threw up.

So the chicken almost burned while I desperately scrubbed regurgitated goldfish crackers from the new carpet (vinegar and water does the trick). I saved supper in time for August to come home and say, "Mm, something smells good!"

I banged a few pans around. Meanwhile, Ladybug strolled in. "Do you smell that, Daddy? What we're having for supper is broccoli and something that won't taste very good."

August made Ladybug apologize to me. The next night I made pizza.

Unmade Bed

I once was grounded for three days for not making up my bed. I guess I’d been told to do it, the week or month or year before. The fact that I couldn’t remember to do it indicated how low a priority my parents’ rules were to me. I think that was my stepfather’s reasoning, anyway, as he shouted, “FROM NOW ON YOU WILL MAKE UP YOUR BED EVERY DAY OF YOUR LIFE!”

Well, news for you, Gary: I’ve been married, oh, roughly 2550 days and I have not made my bed every single one of them. Even though my husband likes a neat bed, and I like making my husband happy – regardless, I won’t make my bed if I don’t want to.

Back in the day, I went along with you on lots of things, mostly without active resistance. I don’t know what kind of daughter you wanted me to be – more spiritual? more sweet-tempered? more logical and calculating? Whatever it was, I wasn’t. Even now: I’ve held to the faith that was your lifeblood and is now mine. But I don’t know if you’d think I’m really holding to it, because I don’t do things exactly the way you said they should be done. And really, I don’t care what you think. Sometimes I drive myself crazy not caring what you think.

I didn’t say goodbye when you left, even though I knew you were leaving. You left, and I said good riddance. For a long time – a couple of years – your absence was a relief, like a toothache that has stopped hurting. The years passed, and I married, and I had children, and – most significantly – I grew up. Half-remembered conversations with you, vivid memories of fights with you, suddenly made more sense as I saw things from an adult’s point of view. You shouldn’t have shouted so much, you know.

You still don’t have a headstone. At first Mom couldn’t afford one, and later... well, I think Mom has her own vivid memories to deal with. You’re buried right beside my father, who does have a headstone. That’s not very fair for you, I suppose. You always had it hard, marrying a widow whose husband died young, inheriting a household of unruly children. Even after ten years, our conversations of you are bittersweet, and nobody talks about you at great length. As for me, who knew you from a very young age, there is much I’d like to say and apologize for – and be apologized to. Thanks to the faith we both held to, I can hope to see you hereafter, and finally put to rest my restless memories.

And, actually, I do sometimes make up my bed, just because I want to.

Comparatively Speaking

Browsing through stores like T.J. Maxx, I look at price tags and feel dizzy. I'm surrounded by bargains! Look, this one on this shirt says, "OUR PRICE: $19.99. COMPARE TO: $39.99." And these jeans say, "OUR PRICE $34.00 COMPARE TO $49.99!" Wow, this is great! I need to snap up these great prices now! Everything is, like, seriously discounted!

Wait a minute.

Everything is, like, compared to a price double the amount. Any price looks good when compared to a bigger one. What a gyp. Then again, I could apply the same principles to my eating habits. Suddenly I come out looking a lot better. Suddenly I wonder why those extra 25 pounds aren't simply melting away. Anything looks good when you compare it to something worse.

OUR BREAKFAST:
Two chocolate graham crackers and a cup of 2% milk.
COMPARE TO:
Three chocolate-chip cookies and a cup of whole milk.

OUR LUNCH:
An entire piece of leftover sausage pizza (instead of the half I originally got), salad with Italian dressing, and water.
COMPARE TO:
TWO pieces of pizza, NO salad, and soda. A whole glass of it.

OUR SNACK:
M&Ms and milk
COMPARE TO:
Um, MORE M&Ms and milk

OUR SUPPER:
Two hefty servings of homemade beef stew, six gumball-sized rolls
COMPARE TO:
Two hefty servings of CANNED beef stew, six BIG rolls. Or maybe seven rolls.

OUR COFFEE BREAK:
A chai latte and an entire package of chocolate-covered toffees, even though I'd promised the kids I'd bring some home for them so I had to buy another package.
COMPARE TO:
Actually, that's pretty bad. Time to bring out the big guns:

Lent is coming. I'm eating sweets while I can.

Charting -- The Great Revelation

My question is, How did you find out about charting?

Several of you have mentioned it in your Finding Out stories, and I'm curious. See, I just discovered charting. For anyone checking the sidebar, yes, I have three children. I'm nearly 31. In all these years, I've operated on vague and general ideas of what happened every month. I have just in the past year discovered how to pinpoint my fertile phase, predict my period, and understand what the heck is going on inside me.

I'm especially indignant about my ignorance because I grew up around hyperconservatives who said even trying to avoid a pregnancy, and therefore all contraception, is sinful. You'd think somebody could have found a segue into the topic of fertility tracking. And when I visited the OB/GYN for my pre-marriage exam and birth control discussion, the only mention of charting was that it was cumbersome to take my temperature every morning and why bother when there are all sorts of other methods that don't require any work?

I'm actually having a great time with my chart. We're currently using it to avoid pregnancy, but I enjoy just seeing what happens day by day.

So did you chart for fertility purposes, or to figure out when to use a form of birth control to prevent pregnancy? And when you did chart, did you record only temperatures, or temperatures and cervical fluid?

Possibly if I'd had a clear understanding of my cycle, I wouldn't have gotten pregnant so soon with my first child. But then, why would I want to give up Ladybug? And speaking of Ladybug, she and Dilly will be properly educated in the facts of femaleness in the future. Twenty-five years from now, they'll be posting on their own blogs (which probably will be holographic with theme music): "One thing I wish my mom had done differently was not talk so much about cycles and charting. Honestly, who needs to know all that?!"

Finding Out

Swistle, who can garner 55 comments just asking about calendars, has asked a seriously interesting question: how did you Find Out you were pregnant? Here are my stories:

* Ladybug: Well, do we count the few weeks before I took the test, when August and I both knew what was up but were in complete denial? Even when I spent all day lying on the couch feeling icky? Even when I was too icky to cook supper, but when he made hamburgers, I ate TWO of them? August and I had been married for, oh, three months at that time, and had reserved that first year of marriage just for us. God and biology had other plans. I finally broke down and took the test. Two of them. I remember sitting in our sparsely-furnished living room, feeling a mixture of happiness and sadness. I was happy about the new end-tables we just bought. The blue lines on those tests, however, were pretty shattering. It need not be said, but I will anyway, that my feelings changed dramatically once The Pregnancy became Ladybug.

* Titan: Well, THIS pregnancy was undertaken with due consideration. As in: *Pause* "Um, I'm pretty sure I'm fertile right now." *Pause to calculate* "That would make, what, falltime? We could do that." "Okay!" Unpause. Titan arrived nine months later.

* Dilly: She was the first one that we really actively hoped for. The others, thanks to my easy fertility, just sort of happened. But between Titan and Dilly were four years of nothing, and I was getting concerned. When I had a miscarriage at nine weeks, I was at least reassured that I could get pregnant. The following month, Dilly came into existence. I burst out of the bathroom and waved the test in front of August's face, while he tried not to think about what was on that stick.

I actually know I'm pregnant with a day or so of conception. I feel icky and sleepy and hungry. With Titan and Dilly both, I argued with the pregnancy tests (took about five tests each) before I was far enough along for the test to detect it. It's never a surprise for either of us.

You Have No Idea

If you met Ladybug in person, you'd probably think she was charming. She's never very neatly dressed, but she'll curtsey to you as if she's a princess. Her conversation is remarkably articulate and expressive, although often a bit oblique: you're left feeling as if you're almost sure what she was talking about. She displays no shyness or fear of people, and gives out spontaneous hugs. You'd probably turn to me -- her mother -- and say, "What a sociable little girl!"

I'd smile back and say thank-you, and if Ladybug was present I'd say something nice so she could hear it. But you might wonder about the expression in my eyes -- as if I were thinking more than I was saying.

What I'm thinking is, You Have No Idea.

Because Ladybug was my first baby, I didn't know what was typical and what wasn't. She smiled at about six weeks and continued to smile a lot. She ate well. She was agile -- I remember watching her on her back, picking up a glass candleholder with her feet and transferring it to her hands without dropping it. She crawled right on schedule and walked by her first birthday. Any concerns I had, other moms assured me, "Oh, yes, my child does that, too!"

So there were lots of children who burst into hysterical crying when people applauded at church, or when somebody laughed too loud. There were lots of children who smiled but never laughed. There were lots of children who didn't want Mama to sit down and play with them. There were lots of children who didn't speak until age two and a half. The problem was, I never saw any of these other children, and life with my Perfectly Normal child was difficult.

We had Titan a year and a half after Ladybug, and that's when our suspicions were confirmed. Titan would laugh if we scrunched our noses at him. He had words for ball, bird, and bottle. (They were all the same word -- "Ba!" -- but that's not too bad for an 11-month-old.) He insisted on being played with, and loved nothing better than crawling up into August's lap. Even allowing for personality differences, it was obvious that Ladybug didn't process things the same way that Titan did.

As the two got older, they became very good playmates. Ladybug began to talk, and soon was speaking in complete thoughts. Possibly because of Titan's influence, she became less distant, more cuddly. Some things got easier. But she still ignored people, hated loud noises, and went into hysterical meltdowns over unexpected changes. By the time she was three years old, we seriously began reading up on autism.

Our research ruled out autism, and I looked into sensory disorders and Asperger's syndrome. About that time, however, Ladybug turned a corner. She began responding to people, playing with her friends, and handling new situations better. Over the next three years, we still had episodes and challenges, but for the most part she appeared to behave mostly normally. Maybe she outgrew it, we thought. Granted, we had to be careful how we said things to her, keep her from loud or too much activity, and we had to shield her from people -- mostly kids -- who overwhelmed her with attention. But that was second nature: we'd always done that. And she was so much better than she used to be.

Today, however, while was outside with the kids -- on a glorious 65-degree January day, thank you Southern weather -- my good friend said very hesitantly, "I'm concerned about Ladybug."

Her daughter is the same age as Ladybug, and we've been friends since our girls were toddlers. Furthermore, she teaches learning-disabled elementary children. If she had something to say, it was important. Even more reluctantly, she said, "I think... she displays signs of... Asperger's syndrome."

I almost laughed out loud. "Oh, you don't say?"

I'd taken all my concerns and questions, packed them into a box, and stuck it into the back of mind. Now, however, I think we need to revisit the whole issue. Should we have her evaluated and diagnosed? Get her involved in a developmental class? We're homeschoolers, so we're not quick to get our children into The System. But today, being able to talk about my concerns with someone who wouldn't dismiss them, I've realized how tiring it is to work, worry, and fret over Ladybug. Maybe there are ways I can help Ladybug face her challenges and understand her world, without getting frustrated with her.

Ladybug is a pretty little girl who enjoys her books, loves her siblings and friends, and is eager to be grown-up and helpful. Here's to choosing the path that will let her get the most out of her world.

Resistance is Futile

It had been a long day. When August got home, he let me escape to a coffee shop for an hour. Once home, I found that August had comandeered the kids into picking up the living room and dining room. The dishwasher was running. August even cleaned up our bedroom. He'd laid out my pajamas and bathrobe. Once to bed, he made sure the candles over the bed would light easily. He had some massage oil. The whole evening, I realized, was calculated and masterful. How was I to resist? I didn't.

Do Like, Don't Like

What I Like About Being Mother:

* When August tells the kids, "I brought this candy bar just for Mama because she's special," they don't question that I deserve it.

What I Don't Like About Being A Mother:

* Being omniscient. Not that I know ALL things -- I still haven't figured out what happened to all of Dilly's new socks I just bought. But when I see Titan playing with a new gumball-machine necklace that isn't knotted at either end, and I'm tired of trying to prevent disasters so I don't say anything to him... Seven minutes later I'm scouting out the parking lot in a bitter wind trying to find a cheap plastic pendant that (unaccountably) fell off the string on the way to the van. And I knew it would happen all along.

Namer's Remorse

I talked to a lady recently who said her son's middle name was the same as my son's first name (which, I hope you assume, isn't really Titan). Titan's name isn't really trendy -- when he was born, one nurse simply assumed that he was named for his father, and was surprised to find out that we'd chosen it because we liked it. So when the lady told me that her son's first name is Grover, I felt a sinking feeling for that poor boy.

"I don't know why I did that," she added. "It was his father's name and his grandfather's name. But still."

It is in cases like that that I have sympathy for parents besieged by namer's remorse. I narrowly escaped it myself. If Dilly had been a boy, and if we'd gone with the boy name we'd chosen, I think I'd have had some moments of soul-searching to decide if this name was really one we could live with. The name was Emeth, which is the Hebrew word meaning "truth." It has a contemporary sound and a great meaning, but it's just a little too outside the lines to be comfortable. Fortunately we were spared the dilemma, and we'll probably stick to more mainstream names from now on.

All that said, I can't dredge up a lot of sympathy for the parents in this article. They aren't rescuing their children from burdensome or ill-considered names; they just changed their minds about what they liked. The only distinctive change was from Luke to Beckett, and even that has the same sound to it. As for the others, what's the difference between Emma and Caroline, Sophie and Isadora? It's like changing a red sweater for a green one: you still won't stand out in the holiday crowds.

I think many who read baby-name books take to heart the warning that we are doing an Important and Vital thing for our children by giving them names. So important and vital, in fact, that a bad choice can ruin their future careers, love life, and mental health. The pressure throws parents into a panic. Some get over it, decide on a good name, and learn to live with their choices. Others, however... well, let me just say, if you think choosing a name is tough, wait till you get to potty-training.

There are viable reasons for changing a child's name... I guess... but from the looks of it, there are simply a lot of parents who need to take deep breaths, relax, and realize that they are bringing forth a miracle of life who is, ultimately, just as ordinary as all the rest of us.

Small Talk

It happened again.

I was in the library, watching one-year-old Dilly climb on and off a child's rocker. Another mother sat nearby with her six- or seven-month-old in his stroller. We struck up a conversation, discussing the weather (in the South, the weather is a topic of genuine interest) and admiring each other's children. "Is she your only one?" asked the lady. I replied, no, I have two more, and pointed out Ladybug and Titan.

Then I asked, "How many children do you have?"

Those are the words that came out of my mouth. But as happens so very many times, the other mom completely misheard what I asked. What she heard, evidently, was, "How many children do you have, and do you plan to have any more, and can you assure me that you're well within the culturally-sanctioned limits for family size? For added interest, can you tell me what delicate procedures have been performed on your body that will keep you within those limits?"

By the time Dilly lost interest in the chairs and I was compelled to follow her to another section of the library, I knew all about this stranger's family plans. I knew she had two children, one in kindergarten because they wanted to wait until their first was older before having their second. I knew that they had trouble conceiving this second child, even though she'd been off birth control for a year. I knew that this is her last child, and that she'd had her tubes tied to ensure it. In all this gush of information, I never actually got her name.

I, like almost any woman who has given birth, find the topic of childbirth and fertility fascinating. My sister and I have long, detailed conversations about topics that makes my husband, August, run for cover. ("I just don't need to know that much about your sister.") I spent many a playgroup discussing sensitive material with other moms while our toddlers played obliviously nearby. If that's the topic at hand, I'm all ears. But a casual inquiry into how many children you have, especially from someone you've never seen before, does not qualify as introducing that particular topic. The inquiry is called small talk, which rarely if ever involves bodily functions.

Often these women assume that I enjoy the same open dialogue, and ask me, "And are you going to have any more kids, or are you done?" Increasingly, I want to reply, which of course I won't although my friend Swistle says she'd pay money to hear me say it, "Oh, I don't know. I still enjoy having s*x, personally. Was it hard for you to give up?"

Then again, that might inspire an entirely new turn of small talk. Best just to stick with the polite smile and quick escape.

A Tale of a Pen Name

When I was about nine years old and already planning to be a famous writer, I knew I'd need a pen name. I'm not sure why I thought I needed one. Probably because at the time we were playing with the Jem dolls. Remember Jem? She was the 80s Hannah Montana: She was the blond-haired Jerica by day, and the pink-haired rock star Jem by night. Both Jerica and Jem had a true love: dark and handsome Rio, who couldn't decide between the two of them. Obviously, it was cool to have an alter identity. (Apparently it was also cool to have such serious insecurity issues that you would stick with a guy who was cheating on you WITH YOURSELF.)

So, looking ahead to my glittering literary career, I considered possible pen names. I rejected any form of my own name as Boring. I wanted something elegant, mysterious, and uncommon. My decision?

Sophie.

Twenty-two years later, the literary career is still waiting with bated breath. My chosen pen name, however, has gone from uncommon to practically threadbare. Apparently there were lots of elementary-aged girls standing in the lunch line thinking of names that were elegant, mysterious, and uncommon, with the result that lunch lines now are full of Isabelles, Olivias, and, of course, Sophies.

What could I choose for my exotic pen name now? Maybe something retro, like Betty. Or there was always that bandmember of Jem's, the blue-haired one, that I liked. She never caught Rio's eye back then, but maybe there's still a chance for Aja.

Happy? New Year

It's January First. This fact was commemorated very characteristically by my two older children this morning.

My firstborn, who will be known as Ladybug, is six years old and takes a very serious view of life. If there aren't any dark, looming portents of doom readily available, she makes them up.

My second-born, who will be known as Titan (as in mythology, not as in a football movie), is a happy-go-lucky five-year-old whose greatest concern in life is that he won't get his full 30-minute allotment of computer time.

This morning, Titan noticed the date on the computer. "Is it JANUARY?" he exclaimed in wonder, as if this were the best surprise since Christmas.

Ladybug looked over his shoulder. "Oh, no!" she groaned tragically. "It's JANUARY!"

So, from Mairzy's house, Happy New Year! Or, if you prefer, Horrors! It's a New Year!

Trial Run

I'm trying out this blog for a short while to see if I can maintain it faithfully enough to warrant its existence. Why would I not be able to maintain it? Because we have dial-up so my computer runs much slower than my life. Because I have three children, two of whom I homeschool and the youngest of whom wants all my attention. And because I'm not a superhero like, evidently, many other women who have wonderful blogs and even less time than I do.

But here's to a valiant effort!