And etc…

You know how you have a legal responsibility to name your child at some point in their lives, generally before they become aware that they probably strongly dislike you? Yeah, I’m agonizing over that legal responsibility. Is it wrong to name a kid after yourself? Now, I don’t mean completely–Amanda Jr. is just too weird, even for me. And I’d get confused. I’m wondering if it’s wrong to give a kid your first name as a middle name. Seems like they might someday resent not having their own name, though, as Matt points out, they still have a first name.

I think I have this problem because I view the middle name as a second chance name. If the kid hates the first name, they still have the middle name to go by. But they don’t really have that option if their mother’s name is the exact same. That just becomes creepy, especially when you’re introducing yourself to guys at a bar or something. Though, I suppose it would promote non-dating activities… But that wouldn’t help with the “trying not to scar her for life” thing. (Which I will inevitably do, but I was hoping to do it better. And have more fun with it.)

Anyway, this is a dilemma. At least to me. Matt says that as long as you don’t turn out to be a real loser parent it’s fine. (I can probably at least achieve mediocrity on that score.) This reasoning made me wonder, “what if the kid turns out to be a serial killer and I resent that I gave the kid my name?” Especially if the kid starts using my name for this life of crime. And I end up somehow mistakenly arrested. Or at least forever associated with it. The big evil people tend to have their full names drafted into the headlines, you know. Like John Wilkes Booth. Who is the only example I can come up with at the moment, which hopefully does not invalidate my point.

Ok, so the serial killer thing is unlikely–she may be emotionally or mentally-unbalanced, but who isn’t? A lot of people are telling me that she’s my kid, so I get to name her what I want. Which sort of makes me feel like naming her after myself is like bestowing my property rights of ownership upon her. And I don’t know if that’s a good or bad thing. I don’t want to “disown” her (at least not yet), but ownership is sort of like slavery. Though, childhood is sort of like slavery, without all the brutality, but with some of the angst. And a lot of singing.

So, five people who read this blog, what should I do? Is it just lazy to give a kid your name as a middle name? Does it lack creativity? Or does it show that you think the kid won’t embarrass you, so it’s a stamp of pride? And, if that’s true, how come I wasn’t named after anyone? Hmmm, Mother?

If TV has taught me anything in life, and we all know it is my main source of education, it has taught me that when a woman is pregnant, she attends prenatal classes. So I signed up for one at the local hospital. Matt was pretty excited about how four nights of this month are now spent in a room full of women who somehow are trying to be proud of their pregnancies while still seeming ashamed that they had sex in the first place. Yeah, that’s where organized religion gets weird. It’s awkward. Not just for them, but for me, seeing how I just figured everybody was getting it on most of the time in some way or another. I guess not?

It got weirder when we viewed the labor and delivery video. Turns out most women end up pretty well naked by the time the kid comes out. There were lots of fairly gratuitous breast shots, and several embarrassed men. Lots of giggling. (Although, in all fairness, I was giggling as well–though I’m still not sure what I was laughing at exactly. I think I was just worried about infant head sizes and trying not to freak out, though I may have also been laughing at all the laughing. And the woman who kept turning her head away from the television and blushing.)

This whole childbirth class has been surreal, actually. The dominant religious culture has made it odder than it may have been, but it’s still just odd all on it’s own. Why is it necessary for me to know all these medicinal things, like how many centimeters you need to be dilated in order to officially be in each stage of labor? Am I going to have to check this myself? I hope not. I’m a rhetorician. Not a medical doctor. If we decide to debate language use and subsequent power issues surrounding pregnancy in the United States, I’d be relevant. In fact, I actually have some opinions in this area. (Probably they tell us all these things so we feel “in control” of our pregnancy–though, since they all happen somewhat automatically, I feel that knowing that they’re going to happen doesn’t give me any more of a sense of control. Just panic. Lots and lots of panic at the anticipation of pain. Yay!) However, in the event someone is needed to, say, administer anesthesia, I’m not useful. Although I was happy to learn that the patient gets to control how much anesthesia they get through their epidural. I plan to find out how much is max.

However, I have now signed up for a couple of more classes–infant cpr/car seat safety and breastfeeding. Should be fun times. I probably could learn these things off YouTube, but I’d prefer to hear it from someone I know has a nurse’s license.

So I live in Utah. And apparently hobo spiders live in Utah, too. On the surface, I am okay with this arrangement. However, I do not like hobo spiders that live in Utah that live in MY HOUSE. This one was in the recycling bin today. He (or she, how am I supposed to know?) was apparently hanging with my empty cans of Diet Coke when he was discovered by Matt, who promptly let me meet him as well (probably unnecessary since I could’ve lived without this encounter, just for future reference…).

Mr. Hobo Spider (Maybe Ms., actually)

Because neither of us really wanted to touch it, we took the bin outside and shook him out of it. I was planning on letting him live, so long as he scurried off away from the house. Alas, he was either directionally-challenged or just stupid. When I saw he was heading homeward–as in, MY HOME, homeward, well, he had to die. It was his choice, however, so I feel no remorse. Had he went to the neighbor’s, he’d be spinning happy little hobo webs right now. Too bad for him, I guess. So in a way, I guess this post is his obituary. That photo is actually him pre-squashing, as we are a family that likes to trap bugs and then photograph them for our amusement. And, for all y’all who don’t live in poisonous spider-land, well, I wanted you to see why I’d be so grossed out.

So I was feeling sort of pregnant today–my back hurt, I couldn’t get comfortable, even in bed–but then I saw the new Star Trek movie, and I no longer care. I just have an odd giddy happy feeling about life. Despite the guy next to me who actually answered his phone during Spock’s emotional make-out elevator scene (for lack of a better name) and the big guy behind Matt who apparently has legs that are so long they require three rows of chairs. I was so irritated by phone guy that I almost turned to him and yelled, “Really? Did you REALLY just do that??” But he was pretty big. And I was hoping he would just stop. Oh, and then his kid came and asked him for money. I was confused, but at least that only took about five minutes of me having to move my pregnant self around to let a large child pass in front of me a few times.

But anyway, for the record, Star Trek is better than Wolverine. If you wanted to know which one to spend money on. Of course, you should probably just see them both. That’s my plan this summer–see every movie possible before I am presented with a very small live person who cries a lot and prevents me from viewing movies at the cinema. I think it’s a good goal. Also, I should probably write a dissertation proposal. But the movie thing just seems much more pressing…

Apparently my last post was so negative and angry that people who normally never call me (unless they’re drunk…wait…or maybe I only call them when I’M drunk…) called to make sure I wasn’t planning on doing anything dumb. Of course, since I can justify anything, I would never do anything dumb. So no worries, people. And on an unrelated note, did you know you don’t need a permit to carry a gun in Utah? Just to conceal it. Ppssshaw. What’s the point of hiding a weapon if you’re trying to scare people? Note: I am not planning on doing anything with a firearm. In fact, they’re scary and I am quite clumsy. I’m more likely to make people cry the old-fashioned way, by being really, really mean and truthful. Note 2: This could happen at any moment. Be prepared.

So, did you know that naming a baby is really hard? I don’t want to scar the poor child for life by giving it an awful name, but it’s so hard to know nowadays what an awful name is. Besides, the little girl is going to be forced to spell her last name all the time already…which seems unfair. But I digress. (This last week someone actually mispronounced my last name AND my first name. It was weird. Who knew “Amanda” was hard to say?) Got any name suggestions that are not your name? Because it’s not actually funny when you suggest I name my baby after you. If you give me a million dollars, I might reconsider. Or three hundred thousand dollars, really. That’s my price.

It’s disturbing how many of my students already have their children’s names picked out. People actually talk about this before a crying infant is handed to them in a hospital room? Why did nobody tell me? Were they supposed to tell me about this around the time they told me I was supposed to start fantasizing about my wedding when I was a child as well? I was a little too busy daydreaming about taking over the world and being rich, super-powerful, and generally better than everyone to get around to the baby and wedding dreams. I mean, what more could a little girl want in life? And once you’re super-awesome (and super-thin, with super-great hair and super-great skin) other stuff just sort of falls into place. Unless television and the cinema have been lying to me…