What's in a name?

A labour ward is a good place to keep track of name trends. When I was doing delivery duty, I was exposed to a clump of Calebs, a mass of Micaelas, a hefty helping of Heindrichs, some Simons and a very few Felicities.

It was always interesting for me to hear what people were choosing to name their children and why. Some people went for the family name option, giving their brand new offspring a super-concoction of names belonging to various family members from the last 5 generations. I always felt that this was very unfair on the infant. Why such a tiny little person has to carry some ridiculously extensive title is beyond me. 

Can you imagine: "I'm so glad you came to visit. I'd love to introduce you to my son. I hope you don't have anywhere you need to be in the next couple of hours, because it's going to take that long for me to recite his full name. I will have to stop at some point just to check his birth certificate, because I always muddle up the part where Wilhelm Majorus Siegfried follows on to the Peter Gandolfini, or is it the Jean-Claude Renaldi bit? See, I get it wrong every time! Just trying to keep the peace in this politically correct EU family of ours. Ahem. Cuppa tea?"

Then there were the parents who insisted on the New Agey names: "Ja, this is uhm? What do you call that beautiful flower with the thorns? Oh yes, a rose... Rose, what did we decide to call this little bebby? That's right, man, we called him Sunbeam. I thought it was wicked, bru. Yeah it's a bit on the frillsy side, but we actually didn't check if it was a boy or a girl for the first three days, you know... those labour drugs were wild, man! What? What do you mean only she was supposed to have?""

I also have my reservations about New Age names. It might be really cute, Gwenyth Paltrow, to have your little Apple Blossom digging in the sandpit, making snow angels or even starting ballet, but one day, when sweet little Apple Blossom has finished her MBA, please tell me who is actually going to take her seriously when she applies for that fancy position at IBM? (Apple working for IBM? Splendid, I know!)

Or parents who complicate the spelling of their infant's name to make their little dumpling completely unique. "This is Michael,' is what you hear, but what they're saying is, "This is EmYkilL." And the day that poor little EmYkilL has to learn to write his own name, the kid's going to have to go see an educational psychologist just to deal with the fact that his parents couldn't spell!

So when the time came to choose names for my own children, I was quite nervous. Not only about making the right decision, but also about all the criticism that goes along with naming your child (as neatly illustrated in the last four paragraphs).

We consulted name books, in the end, deciding that we favoured giving names with inherently special meanings. We should have only looked at one book, though. The trouble with looking up the meaning of the same name in different books, is that each author donates their own special interpretation to each name, so you'll find that the name you really like could mean "radiant angel" in one book and "lump of clay" in another.

We ended up going with one name meaning "Happy" and one meaning "Bringer of peace". (Side note - we await, perhaps not as patiently as we ought, for happiness and peace to be brought).

Yesterday, on the way home from ballet, "Happiness" was thoughtfully tugging on a stray hair that had escaped the crooked bun pinned off-center at the top of her head.

"Mom," she said, "when I have my daughter one day, I will call her Juliet."

"That's a very beautiful and romantic name," I said.

"What's romantic?" she asked.

"It's, uh, it means lovely and beautiful and special," I grasped at straws.

"Oh." Moments silence. "If I have another girl, I will call her Chloe."

"That's nice too, " I said. "But what if you have a boy?"

No hesitation here: "I'll call him Spiderman."

Hmmm. Seems we may be into a new name trend here...

Me vs my greatest enemy

I am in the middle of a very heated argument.
One that I know will not end satisfactorily. And it's because one of the feuding parties will be convinced of how undeniably stubborn they are, and the other will be frustrated by unchanging circumstance.
This is a no-win situation.
Let me introduce you to the opposing teams: In the left corner we have Jessican't, mild-mannered mum, more the lover than the fighter, the intellectual. Dressed in pyjamas. Comfy ones. With sheep on. Munching a digestive biscuit. Because it tastes nice. In the right corner, exploding with energy, optimism and a long list of To-Do's, and desperately aware of her rapidly approaching thirtieth birthday and all the changes in metabolism which she has been severely warned arrive on the morning you turn thirty, and very aware of the spare tyre inflating around her middle ("You have had two children, dammit!" interrupts Jessican't from her Lazy Boy chair) is the overactive, tracksuit- and sneaker-clad Jessican, nature-lover, sun-worshipper and all-round health-nut. Chewing on a celery stick. Because it's good for you.
Yes, it's true. I'm fighting with myself. Jessica, the blogger, is being pulled back and forth by two uncontrollable personalities fighting to have things their own way.
This is the argument I have to put up with all day long: I must get back to gym, but I hate it. I must eat better, but healthy food is so blechy. I must blow dry my hair, but my hair has a mind of it's own, and without threatening it with a blow-torch, never mind the hairdryer, it pretty much does it's own thing. I must garden more, but I hate getting all dirty like that, and do you even know what size spider is lurking in the agapanthas? I must swim more, but the pool net is SUCH a mission to take off and put back on again. I must be a better lover, but I'm so tired that the moment I enter my bedroom, my body shuts down - which explains why sometimes, when I go to bed at night, the bed hasn't even been made yet, because I have refused to go into that room the whole day for fear of falling asleep at an inappropriate time (like, for instance, lunchtime). I must tidy the house, but I want to blog (oops - third party sneaks in an opinion).
So you see, I really am a mess. And it's an argument I just can't win.
Perhaps it is because there is just SO much that I know I need to get to, need to change, need to do, that I actually don't know where to begin. And trying to do a little bit at a time doesn't really help, because just when you've done that pile of washing, or washed that sink full of dishes, there's another pair of socks, or another dirty teaspoon to start the load all over again. It just never ends! Where is the satisfaction of completing a task, when actually, (and really, this was all clearly laid out in the brochure!) the task has no end!
Jessican and Jessican't battle it out. Daily. One, ever the optimist, insists that the job be done and be done now. The other digs her heals in, knowing that if the job gets done now or later, there will still be more of the same job to do tomorrow. And I am stuck between these two, their stubborn arguments clanging around in my head. Like empty pots crashing together in the sink. Like a tough stain refusing to relinquish itself to a potent detergent.
Jessica, the mediator, retreats to the sanctuary of her ISP. I am absolved of this madness, for a short time, bowed before the cyber-throne of my Mac, offering my daily blog as a penance. Armed with a sense of purpose and salvation, I set off to face the challenges that await me and my split personality. And hopefully, by the end of the day, I will have come to some amicable compromise allowing me to live to fight (myself) another day.

Take a pill and call me in the morning

It's been nearly 4 weeks since I started happy-pills. I know this only because my blister pack is nearly empty signaling it's time to refill.

Since starting this treatment, I have had mixed responses from all over. Some people have poo-pooed the notion that anti-depressants are actually effective at all, insisting that they only work due to their placebo-effect . Some people have tried to convince me that I can cope just fine without them. Some have tried not to talk about it at all - like it makes them feel uncomfortable. While still others have asked me to to pass them a couple of pills under the table (which could explain my empty pack...)

What do I think?

Well. Over the weekend there was so much on, and I was really caught up in the adrenalin of the bike race and the business of socialising and catching up, that I forgot my pills over two consecutive days. And you know, I actually felt it by late Sunday and spilling over into yesterday. 

It came as a heaviness. An empty tiredness. A longing to be somebody else, somewhere else, somehow. Just unhappy. A misery that crept like a stalking panther and settled itself somewhere behind my eyebrows, hiding in the hustle and bustle of my day, readying itself to pounce and devour. This melancholy caught my attention, reminding me about the little white pills resting undisturbed in the medicine chest. I took yesterday's dose early, and like mist, the prowler in my head disappeared leaving only a feint footprint in my mind of it's recent presence.

So, to answer the question: I think these drugs work for me. I feel better. A little more like the person I know I am. A little bit more like ME.

Super Hero In Training!

(Disclaimer: I am aware of but do not take any responsibility for the title of today's blog's abbreviated form.)

For the first time ever, I was grateful today that my house was a complete pigsty. It gave me something to do to avoid missing work, missing hubby, missing kids, missing life outside of solitary confinement. 

There was that, and I drank loads of coffee as I argued with myself about where I should start my assault on my To Do List: the study/ the spare room/ the LOADS of STUFF/ the kid's toy box/ correction: plural - toy boxes/ the TONS of STUFF/ the linen cupboard/ the entropy behind the bar/ the garden shed. 

At this point it would be fair to say that I am eagerly awaiting my super-hero powers from my recent (radio-active) spider bite to kick in so that I can let you all know that that To Do List I just went through, is what I accomplished before 10am. 

Sadly, I am still super-powerless. But I have not given up faith that at some point in the near future I will be bestowed with X-RAY VISION, SUPERHUMAN STRENGTH, and ULTRASONIC SPEED*. 

*I reckon that if I have several options to look forward to, and I only get one gift, at least I have more chance of expecting the gift I receive. For instance, if I was eagerly and only anticipating "INVISIBILITY" and instead got "GLOWS-IN-THE-DARK", how completely disappointing would that be?

The possibility of super-powers extends in so many directions... If I had a super-power, even FaceBook would be affected. Can you just imagine my status? Jessica can heal herself. Real quick. People would think I was on strong drugs - probably a very effective anti-biotic. Or how about this: Jessica is Mr Incredible. Kachow! I do like the possibility of declaring: Jessica glows in the dark - but that might be just too much for my FaceBook Friends to take in. If I said Jessica is invisible or Jessica can stop a speeding bullet,  I might raise unsubstantiated concerns for my emotional well-being and someone might send me a flower for my garden or a sea urchin for my aquarium out of sympathy.

Which is why, when I do receive my "special talent", I will assume a non-presumptuous alter ego. I will be an unnoticed wall flower, perhaps a shrinking violet. I will wear spectacles. And brown tweed skirts. I will hide my nose in a book. I will talk quietly and stutter in front of large audiences. 

So, I guess that's that then. The day I become a librarian my secret will be out.

But until then, I will continue my battle with the debris of existence which fills my home. And hopefully, I will be able to tick off at least one thing on the To Do List by the end of the week.

Tricycle Tours and Gallumphing Mamas

You know how awful it is when you hear a recording of your own voice? Especially if you're not into TV or Radio and don't have to listen to yourself for a living. 

Well, I saw a video clip last night that captured me running alongside my cycling 3 year old at the Argus Tricycle Tour 2008 yesterday. Running. Me. The non-gym fanatic. The holder of the I'm-not-built-to-run excuse. How painful is that? Let me tell you.

If you think hearing your own voice is bad, try, if you can, to translate that audio response into a visual reaction linked to rapid motion, and then times that by 700. Ouch! If I knew that's what I looked like when I ran, I would ban me ever taking more than a leisurely stride. In fact, I would be sure that I never hurry anywhere. On foot. (I had to add that, because I can drive pretty well, and I'm fairly competent on roller-blades even if I haven't used them as an official form of transportation in the last 10 years or so).

But watching myself run was a personally painful experience. Not only do I think I have a "Heavy" Run (a bit like a charging refrigerator), but having to see the way my body responds to increased motion is really not aesthetically pleasing. Apart from the obvious bits that get a bit wobbly during a run (note to self: should have worn better support), I was not impressed by the strained expression on my face. I seriously looked like I was been tortured. There was this pained look in my eyes which would belong better in a dentist's chair during root-canal surgery than on a race track. No matter how hard I tried, I just could not look at all good being a bit overweight, sweating profusely and trying desperately to keep up with a very accomplished little cyclist. I guess that the real pain comes from the fact that I had secretly hoped, somehow, that I would look really fabulous beside my speedy little tyke on her bike. That the other moms accompanying their kids to the race would look at us and think "Wow - what a cool mom! Wish I could keep up with my 3 year old AND look so completely fantastic!" It was a nasty wake-up call seeing the truth captured on film. A pitiful replay, to say the least.

The real cherry-on-top of this excruciating ordeal for me was the cheerful voice I was using to mask my discomfort. "Keep it up!", "Faster! Faster! OK, not so fast!", "Don't ride into the other children, Love!" and "Wait for me, Sweetie!" when all I really wanted to do was lie down under a pine tree and throw up (well, maybe not in that order). And, having been reminded of what my voice sounds like, the thought of that all mixed up with my tragic sprint is enough to bring tears to my eyes.

But beside all that, the girls raced beautifully!