The Long Road to a Name

Michael and I each drew up a list of baby names we liked and sent them to each other by email.
We could be as "original" as we wanted, because the baby naming process isn't just the two of us.
The name has to be approved by a series of family members more harsh than US immigration.
Children's names in our family go through the 7 stages of editing. The names Michael and I
originally liked. The argument from my parents that they are difficult to say in Spanish.
The argument from Michael's mom that no Irish name has a Spanish middle name.
The arugment from Michael's dad that it's just not French enough.
Then there's the arguments from my siblings that its not trendy enough, it's not pretty enough,
it's not versatile enough in three languages.

The debarkle over Carmen's name left my mother and Michael not speaking for over a month.
We chose Carmen to honor my grandmother, Carmela. Michael would not settle for Carmela.
"She'll grow up to be a prostitute," he said.
"It's Spanish," my mom said.
"It's non negotiable," Michael added.

The war over Conor's name began long before his birth, back when we were contemplating Mathis for a boy. "Simply awful," my sister said. "Why do you need the H? What about Matis?"
My sister Sarita sent an email which suggested "Mathys."
Embarrassed to be related to someone who would add 'y's gratuitiously to a name, I feared for her future children.

We decided on Conor Takao days before his birth, and quickly added Thierry to hush Michael's dad who
threatened to fly to Japan and name him himself. That night, I had dreams of Michael's dad storming in to the hospital room and naming him Jean-Frederic-Marie, imposing some sort law of French nationality and paternal choice.
I woke Michael up and said, "Thierry. Let's just add it in. Noone said babies can't have 3 prenoms."

We've started early this time. Barely 6 weeks into the pregnancy and we can see the signs marking
the future name war.
"I'm liking Baby G," I said, "It's street wise."
"It's a watch," Michael said.

In saying that, I present to you Michaels and my first five choices for both sexes, none of which i'm sure will make it to the finals of this gruelling competition.

Michael
Imogen Hugo
Clare Nathan
Nathalie Nicolas
Perrine Samuel
Annabelle Mattheo

Ashley
Aurelie Alexander
Mathilde Daniel
Taylor Joseph
Anais Aidan
Sophie Emmanuel

The Day of The Red Tape

The Monsieur at the French embassy took one look at Conor's passport and said he has never seen
a more well-travelled 2 month old. The picture, taken when the umbilical chord was barely cut, shows a baby in the middle of a large outburst of tears. It is a photo of such character that I will always savor to blackmail my son in the future. This is on top of the "dress up" photos in his baby album. Friends and family (who we dearly love, of course) had sent a number of atrocious items that could only be filed under Baby Abuse.
There was a zebra, a clown, a male ballet dancer, what could only be described as a pimp costume, and what looked like a giant banana condom. We took great pleasure in dressing Conor up in these outfits, taking photos in all sorts of poses and sending the photos out. We took his passport photo in the clown. A tantrum clown baby. We can only hope he has a sense of humor about this when he is showing the pictures to his shrink.

The gynacologist took a look at me and said I was healthy and well enough to travel. The dating ultrasound was done, showing an expected due date of the 20th December 2006, comme pense.
I phoned Michael to say we have a well developing fetus.
Michael put the phone on speaker phone and I could hear his whispers around his office.
Did you hear that everyone? My fetus is well developing!

The routine blood tests, conducted in such a manner to make you want to endlessly pee in the cup, were normal.
No reason to be particularly careful, the doctor said. She paused. Doctors don't recommend as much stress as you are under, she said.
She took a look at me, baby in the sling kicking his brother or sister, customs documents and applications for schools and houses and permission to step off a plane spilling out my ears, two older children building a fort out of building blocks in the corner of the exam room and said, but looks like you're coping.
I assured the doctor, a French doctor born in Mexico City who I picked for that reason, that yes, I am always
busy, but yes I always cope. I worked on film sets for my first jobs. I am used to stress.
I have three children. This move is no problemo. Pas de problem.
Nothing, really.

Our less urgent things have left for Belgium. Less urgent meaning the posssesions we brought to America, "every occassion clothes" and photo albums.
The majority of the children's toys and clothes that had been shipped to Colombia have been given to charity. We decided there was nothing worth spending half a year's income
to ship to Belgium. We don't have furniture. It's something i'm looking forward to buying when we get a house. Something that will finally be just ours.

The next time I post, I will be in Brussels, in a new "family sized" apartment on the outskirts on the centre
of town. So for now- au revoir.

Driving Him to Drink

When I told Michael we were having our first child, he was overjoyed. Within two days, we had been
to every baby store in Boston and brought overpriced clothes and large zebras.
When I told Michael we were having our second, he brought a bottle of wine and he drunk a little
bit with some of his friends.
When I told Michael we were having our third, he brought a bottle and sculled half of it. This was a day
when Declan had tipped paint into his work shoes and Carmen had systematically ripped the covers
off all his business manuels and peed on the floor, all in the space of six minutes.
Are you sure? He asked, I mean, we already have two of them.
It was Michael who suggested we have our fourth. We knew we'd have a fourth eventually, and Michael
couldn't entertain the thought of a new baby arriving without his mother knowing. Michael's mother,
who is very sick, is the reason we so hastily become pregnant with our fourth.
I stood in the bathroom with the stick and when I saw the familiar positive, I yelled for Michael.
"It's a baby!" I yelled.
There was a pause.
"How much does it cost to buy out a winery these days?"

Heart Attack on a Stick

Staying in America has meant my children have now been introduced to 3 types of food:
Heart Attack in a Packet
Heart Attack on a Stick
Heart Attack on a Crust

After living in France and Japan for so long, we have been accustomed to beans and rice, when
mixed with pork makes a staple diet. We never intended to be stereotypical health conscious parents, but the disturbing obesity rate amongst our peers children has meant we have put the children's diet under a microscope.

Since coming to America, our children's "Food vocabularly" has increased considerably.

We went to the supermarket on our "French day". Everything in French Day has to be said in French. The only exceptions are speaking with English/Spanish speakers or asking how to say something.
While searching for the furniture polish, I let Declan and Carmen stand at the end of the aisle with their Auntie Sarita, examining the candy.

5 minutes later, Declan comes up to me and asks, "Maman, whats the word in French for double caramel cookie dough ice cream with fries?"
"Heart attack," I said.

Introducing to you, our baby Franglish

Michael rang to talk about Brussels and it wasn't long before we moved on to Cacaheute (our nickname for the 4th baby).
Michael suggested Charles for a baby boy and I immediately dismissed it. "Too royal," I said.
"Arturo?" I asked.
"Javier?" I asked.
"What about Franglish?" Michael asked, "It's cute, it's original, it's multilingual."
"It's unisex," I added.

Given the time it took us to pick the other children's names, Franglish might be our best bet.

My son, the hacker

I spent a half hour last night trying to figure out why the internet was frozen. I asked Conor a series of technical questions and he just stared up at me with a look to say maman you talk far too much. Then he reached down to the keyboard and started bashing. Low and behold, the computer began working. I sent Michael an email suggesting our son will be a computer technician.
Hacker more like it, Michael said.

I always wonder where I went so wrong in breast-feeding Conor. Declan and Carmen were such champion nursers that they spent all their time up to 16 months staring my breasts as if they contained all of lifes answers. Conor stares them and thinks great, she's going to make me suck those again isn't she.
Our lactation specialist here in LA thinks that our problems began with the stress of moving and my pregnancy so close after Conor's birth. She observed us trying to feed and explained that its the same the 17 times I try per day. He sucks, 3 minutes after, he looks up and says oh, there's the ceiling! and immediately stops. I've started pumping and now our entire extended family have tried with the nipple bottle to get Conor to suck like a boy his age should. He starts to suck, then looks at the perpetrator and says don't think you've fooled me folks.
Sarita thinks some of it is his personality. He's so quick, so active, so alert for his age. We've decided Declan will be the diplomat, Carmen the doctor and Conor the football player.
Declan and his playmate Billy were kicking a ball around and Conor so desperately wanted to join in. His legs started kicking, his arms started waving and when he realized that he couldn't get across the grass by himself, he started crying pitiously. My poor little man.

Permanent Baby Brain

Declan: "Maman where did Conor come from?"
I said, "My tummy."
"How did he get there?"
"He grew. From a tiny seed into a big baby."
"How did he grow?"
"He feed off what I ate. Babies need food just like us."
"Did he like pizza?"
"I don't know. You'd have to ask him that."
"Don't be silly, maman. Babies can't talk. You have a baby brain again."

The Husband rings at 5:30 am 5 mornings ago. My eyes are filled with a sort of crust that indicates non-productive sleep. The 2 month old is half latched to me, half naked. The 2 year old is sleeping at our feet under an Anpanman blanket with a sombrero on her head, cherry pajamas inside out and both legs in one leg hole. The 5 year old is curled up on the floor wearing a pajama top and boots. The remains of our 'family night of fun.'
The Husband chooses that moment to tell me we're going to Brussels to live.
"Brussels. The land of chocolate. Five years."
"Chocolat? Cinq quoi?"
He switches to Spanish.
"Cinco."
"What?"
"We're moving."
"To Bogota. 5th May."
"Not anymore. We're going to Bruxelles. I have the job at the EU."
And that's how I found out my dreams of the Spanish city life were ruined by a reality of central European life.
"So we're moving back across the world?"
His answer "We're world champions at moving Ash. We just sort of say the word and things jump into boxes."

How our family doesn't own an airline by now, I don't know.

first post ever here.