Another Life

As promised, I'm going to address some questions from your comments. I'll start with an easy one today.

My friend Wendi asked me what I would have named the boys if they had been girls. 

 

Owen, no question, was going to be Julia Marion Campbell. Julia struck me as a classic-beautiful name. You could be Senator Julia or Doctor Julia, but you could also be an artist or a chef, or anything you wanted to be. Marion was my Grandma Neuhaus's name. (It's odd---I just mentioned her the other day here.)

When Owen became Owen, we put the name Julia to rest. It didn't feel right to give that name to any other girl, even the imaginary girl we never had. We wanted to start fresh with our second pregnancy, and started anew with the name possibilities. 

We had decided on Joel some time ago as the possible boy name. The night before the ultrasound, I told Paul, "We need to talk about girl names." 

He said, "Why don't we just wait until tomorrow? That way, we'll know if we even need to bother." 

My heart clenched a bit and I replied, "No. We have to do this tonight. If this baby is a boy, then we'll never, ever, ever, get to talk about baby girl names EVER AGAIN." (You must forgive me. I knew this was most likely our last pregnancy and my hormone-laced emotions were running a bit high).

"Okay," he said. "What names do you have in mind?" 

I had come to this conversation prepared. Boy names were much easier to determine because we didn't want to saddle a boy with an unusual or complicated name. Consequently, there were just less of them out there. Owen came from John Irving's A Prayer for Owen Meany, and Joel came from: 

 

A) The Bible 

B) Joel McHale, host of E!'s The Soup, 

C) Kate Goesslin, who named one of her "Plus Eight" Joel. 

 

You can decide which option is the truth.

Anyway, my point is that boy names are easy. Now, girls, on the other hand....there's so much fun and fluff and beauty. Looking at a list of girl names is like standing at the counter at Tiffany's. There's so much loveliness, but the decision is meant to last a lifetime. How does one choose? How can one argue that an emerald is more beautiful than black pearls or a perfectly cut solitaire? Likewise, how can one choose between a Rachael, Riley, Penelope, Amelia, Cara, Olivia, or Jane? 

Because I knew that the choices were almost overwhelming, I had pre-selected the names listed above as the choices. Paul was okay with this.

 

I started with, "What do you think about Rachael?"

Paul snorted and said, "You mean like from Friends? No." 

I actually wasn't thinking about Friends at all. "Hasn't that show been off the air for like, ten years? What about Penelope? Penny?"

"Next," he said. 

"Amelia?" 

"Too fancy." 

"Jane?"

"Too boring." 

"Riley?"

"Isn't that a boy's name?" 

"What about Cara?" 

"You can't name her Cara. Cara Campbell has too many C sounds." 

"Well, I guess it's Olivia, then," I said. "It's from Shakespeare. And, she could be Liv. Or Livvy. But, never, ever Olive."

"Olivia Campbell. That would be okay," Paul said. "Are we done talking about this now?" 

I don't mean to paint Paul as uncaring or heartless. He just doesn't believe in wasting energy in hypotheticals. Any conversations about the future names of future children, or even pets, for that matter, are swiftly ended with, "We'll deal with that when we deal with it."

Since the ultrasound revealed our Joel and not an Olivia, we never picked up where this conversation left off. Nevertheless, I like the idea that in an another life, we would have had our Olivia Marion. 

 

Perhaps there's an alternate universe where Bizarro Paul and Nancy raise Julia and Olivia. Perhaps those people wonder about their ghost children---Owen and Joel, the boys they never met, yet, strangely enough, would recognize as their own. 

***

By the way, perhaps we dodged a bullet. Owen and Olivia Campbell? I would never, ever, ever, get their names right. As it is, I'm calling Owen "Paul" at least 60% of the time.

***

Have a burning question for me? Leave it in the comments, and it may be the future blog treatment. Serious or silly, have at it!

Literary Autobiography, Part I

People who know me know that I am a reader. I'll read almost anything---cookbooks, "chick-lit," classics, memoir, non-fiction. A lot of what I read goes in one ear and out the other. It's like eating a salad for lunch---good at the time, but I'm hungry two hours later.

Luckily, there have been books that satisfy, that sate the appetite like a four-course meal. These are the books I push on others with an urgency..."You must read this book." I think these books were placed in my hands at just the right time for just the right reasons. A literary perfect storm, if you will (not to mix my metaphors or anything...)

Anne of Green Gables, hit my world in seventh grade. I can't imagine why an awkward, bookish, smart heroine would appeal to me! Anne Shirley was my "kindred spirit" when I was twelve and I felt like a stranger in my own skin. Someday, I'll travel to Prince Edward Island and fight all the Japanese tourists to see the land described so beautifully in the books.

Oh, and the name "Nancy" is a derivative of "Anne." See, I knew we were kindred spirits!

To Kill A Mockingbird, thankfully, was a book that I discovered on my own, instead of in the classroom. I read it the summer of my junior year. I was never forced to deconstruct it or analyze the characters. I could just sink into the world of Atticus, Boo Radley, Scout, and Dill on my own terms. The last line of the book, "[Atticus] would be there all night, and he would be there when Jem waked up in the morning” is hopeful to me. Although the world is spinning and nothing is as safe and easy as it once was, Jem could depend on his father to be there, to be present. Likewise, this book reaffirmed the power of my own dad to be there, to be present---right when I needed it the most, that is, right before I began the process of applying to colleges.

Paul said, "No son of ours will be named Atticus." So, I declare it here that the next Campbell dog will be Atticus.

A Prayer for Owen Meany was a book selected by a teacher-friend of mine for a student book club. This book is one of the few that makes me cry. Although John Irving wastes a lot of print rambling on about the Iran-Contra Affair, the rest of the book is transcendent. I was floating around with my faith at this point in my life, and this book reminded me that God has a plan, and it unravels in ways we could never suspect.

Yes, Owen Campbell is named after Owen Meany.

Romeo and Juliet humbles me. I was lucky enough to teach this play to seventh graders for several years. The story can be silly, but the poetry is sublime. The sonnet between Romeo and Juliet when they meet and kiss for the first time gives me chills. Just listen to this:

If I profane with my unworthiest hand
This holy shrine, the gentle sin is this:
My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand
To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.
Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,
Which mannerly devotion shows in this;
For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch,
And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss.
Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?
Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.
O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do
They pray — grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.
Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake.
Then move not, while my prayer's effect I take.

In one beautiful sonnet, Shakespeare shows how smart Juliet can be---she basically manipulates Romeo into kissing her. She's so clever---and the fact that Shakespeare wrote such compelling female characters in the Elizabethan era is astonishing. This is the same time that people were dealing with the plague. The plague, people! I mean, really.

If Owen was a girl, we would have named him Julia (because Juliet is a bit much to carry around every day). See a trend here?

One more, and then I'll pick up this idea another day:

Bird by Bird, by Anne Lamott (another Anne!) is a book about writing. I encountered it when I did the Southern Arizona Writing Project (a graduate class on writing and the teaching of writing) in 2000. She tells a story about her younger brother, who was struggling to write a report about birds. He was getting wound up about the enormity of the project. She describes how her father sat down next to her brother and said, "Just do it bird by bird, buddy." Eventually, he got it done.

This has stayed with me. When I get too caught up in my lists and to-dos, I find myself thinking, "Just do it bird by bird. It will get done." I can't say that this magically calms me down, but it's a good mantra to repeat. Someday it might stick.

And no, nobody in our household will be named "Bird." That is, unless we get a bird. Which isn't going to happen.

To be continued another time...

You've Been Served

I shouldn't watch South Park, but I do. One of my favorite episodes was a take-off of the dance movie, You've Been Served. Basically, roving dance gangs have dance-offs. The less-awesome dancers, when defeated, have thus been "served." And nobody, nobody wants to be served.

Nevertheless, I've been served several times today.

After writing an entry about how my mother never buys me any clothes, because she only buys clothes for the boys, I get a package with three cute blouses in it from (you guessed it) my mom. There's no way that she did a rush shopping job in response to the blog---it was in the mail when I wrote it. Yes, I've been served. By my mom.

Since it's been awhile since I've discussed Owen's excrement, here's his newest. After doing his business, he looked down at the finished product and declared, "That's the chicken I ate." Chicken, consider yourself served.

I was trying to teach Owen to recognize the letters of his name (which he does). We then worked on Joel, Mommy and Daddy, to less success. For fun, I asked Owen to tell me his middle name (he had just told me that my "real name" is Nancy and Daddy's "real name" is Paul.) He started laughing, and said, "Mommy, middle names are not for sharing."

We gave him the middle name of Kenneth, which is perfectly respectful--he's named after his great-grandfather. I do, however, understand that some middle names are perhaps not for sharing. I'm recall our confirmation in 8th grade. We're all standing in front of the church, getting a blessing, and the pastor says, "Ryan Leroy H--" (protecting the innocent). Never, ever would we have suspected that we had a Leroy in our midst. The solemn moment of blessing was sullied by the titters and outright guffaws of snotty adolescents. Poor Ryan Leroy.

Middle names--you've been served by a two year old. Middle names are not for sharing.

I was reading that the film Slumdog Millionare has been nominated for Best Picture. I haven't seen it yet, but I understand that it talks about the harsh poverty and circumstances in the slums of India. Despite the dreary location, it's supposed to be a good, entertaining film. I'm looking forward to seeing it. So Bollywood films and Bangalore call centers---I hope that this movie is a success, and India is served. Perhaps, something will be done to improve the miserable existences of the lower/working classes in India. Of course, if I am talking out of ignorance, I hope that I am served by another's thoughtful perspective.

I stumble up the stairs at six am to get Joel. When he sees me, his face erupts into a beatific smile and his whole body thrashes with joy--arms flapping, legs kicking. Mommy has arrived. Exhaustion, you've been served. It's worth getting out of bed for this.

We're eating breakfast, and I find myself asking Owen, "Do you think Mommy's pretty?" Needy much?

Later on, we're driving home from the playground, and Owen says, "Mommy, talk about how I'm a good other brother." Needy? Perhaps. Is this a bad thing? Maybe not. We all have the need to hear good things, to feel validated and loved. I'm grateful that I can lean on Owen when I'm feeling ugly, and he has a mother that will tell him he's a good older brother--again.

Game face? You've been served. When you love somebody, you let them need you.