“Words have meaning and names have power” — unknown

When it came time to name both Morgan and Coever, Craig and I had no hard and fast rules except one — nothing that will render their resume to the circular file. We were (and are) pretty adamant about it as well as vocal. There are times, especially when meeting new people and introducing my girls, when I wonder if we didn’t break our own rule naming Coever. Here’s a sample exchange —

Jane Doe: Oh, look at your girls! What are their names?

Me: (pointing) This is Morgan and this is Coever?

Jane Doe: Cobler?

Me: No, Coever.

Jane Doe: Colder?

Me: No, Coever.

Jane Doe: Colver?

Me: No, Coever. Like Dover, but with a C.

Have I doomed my child to exchanges like this going forward? I hope not. Coever’s full name is Catherine Coever, but we liked the sound of Coever and it’s a family name. The actual spelling is Cover, but that looks like cover, as in “Cover your mouth when you cough”. So we added an “e” thinking that would solve the problem. We didn’t want her to forever be correcting people’s pronunciation of her name. It was inevitable that they would “put emPHASis on the last sylLABle”. We chose Catherine because we both liked the sound, it started with “C” like Craig, and it went well with Coever. Plus, it’s a solid name that she can use if she decides that she doesn’t like Coever or is fed up with having to constantly re-introduce herself. As for the resume, she can either use her full name or go by C. Coever. Whatever works, just so long as we haven’t inadvertently ghetto-ized our little butterball.

This may seem so trivial and such a “Who cares” type of rant, but I just read this on a mom confession website —

So, I say all this to say, I didn’t want my girls to be one of a dozen Hannah’s in their first grade class. Don’t get me wrong. I love that name; it’s a family name on my mother’s side. But, I love the names my daughters have. Who knows, they may have seven friends named Olivia who all have at least one sister named Addison, Madison, Ashley, Emma, or Emily.

Of course, given the way things are going, it’s more likely to be Ahliveeyah (or Ohlyveeah), and her sisters Addysun, Maddesun, Ashleigh, Emmah, and Emilee.

Originally, I had planned to introduce both Morgan and Coever to the mysteries of womanhood once they had lost their baby teeth and no longer wore shirts that snapped at the crotch. Sadly, when you have an audience for every-single-thing-that-you-do-24/7, some mysteries are solved sooner rather than later.

Morgan has been consistently accompanying me to the bathroom since she was an infant, so I shouldn’t be surprised to still have an audience lo these two years later. It’s the running commentary that makes these trips so surreal.

Morgan: Where are you, Mommy?

Me: I’m on the potty, Morgan

Morgan: (flinging open the door, sliding aross the tile and stopping right in front of me) Mommy goes pee-pee on the potty!!!

Me: Yes, Morgan. Can Mommy have some privacy?

Morgan: Privacy?

Me: Yes, Morgan. Privacy is when the door is closed.

Morgan: (closing the door, but still staying IN the bathroom) Privacy, Mommy! Privacy!!

Me: *sigh* Yes, Morgan

Morgan: What’s that?

Me: It’s a tampon.

Morgan: Tampon? See it?

Me: It’s for grown up ladies.

Morgan: Grown up ladies. Mommy’s tampon for grown up ladies. Mommy’s okay. Mommy goes pee-pee on the potty!!! (leaves the bathroom)

*sigh*

I thought that would be the end of the Sanitary Products 101 lecture, but seeing as how bathroom breaks are a multiple daily occurrence, especially when you are trying to get in your 8 glasses of water for Weight Watchers, I should have expected to be teaching Sanitary Products 201 (pads and panty liners).

Morgan is smart and she remembers everything. Later on in the evening, we were reading a book about colors. Each page provides items of a specific color. I have Morgan identify the color and the items on the page when we read this particular book. So on the page for pink, there are pink balloons, pink flowers, pink socks, a flamingo and so forth. I point to a pair of candy canes and Morgan says, “TAMPONS!!!”

I guess that I should be glad that she can recognize health and beauty products over candy, right?

“I can live for two months on a good compliment. ” Mark Twain

Apparently, I cannot. Ahhh, Mark, were that it were that easy. I’ve noticed lately that when being given a compliment about how well behaved my girls are, how clean my house is, how good dinner is, how quickly I’ve gotten back into shape after having had Coever, and so on, I find myself making excuses as to why I should received the compliment. For example, here’s a typical exchange —

You: “Wow, the last time I saw you, you were out to here (miming a beach ball tummy) pregnant. You look fantastic! And it’s only been 3 months!”

Me: “Oh, thanks, but I worked out the whole pregnancy”

or

You: “What a sweet little girl you have. She hardly makes a peep”

Me: “Yeah, but she was SO bad yesterday, I thought we were going to have to exorcise the demons!”

See what I mean? What’s up with that? Why can’t I just take it for what it is? A compliment is defined as an expression of praise, commendation, or admiration. It’s meant to be taken as such. There is no qualifier that says you must explain to yourself or anyone else why you deserve that praise or admiration. I don’t know if this is just unique to me or if it’s a woman thing, but I don’t think guys have this problem. I mean, have you ever seen an exchange like this?

Jack: Dude, great coverage on the defense during that last play (swats teammates butt in a strong, masculine but not homosexual way — not that there’s anything wrong with that).

Joe: I know, right?! I’m on fire today! I’m the man! (pumps fist in the air and then punches teammate in the face with a strong right hook, stands over his prone body, beating his fists on his chest in a display of animalistic, masculine, adrenaline-infused, no-one-hugged-me-as-a-child pride).

Okay, I grossly exaggerated that, but you get the point, right? Men just take the compliment. Actually, it seems like that take it and then they embellish it! Like telling you, Yes, I agree with my greatness and let me point out some other things for you, too. Darn that extra X chromosome!

In any event, regarding the receipt of compliments, the plan is to be gracious and accepting, consider each compliment a bite-sized morsel of something decadent and totally satisfying (it always comes back to food for me), because that’s really what it is.

Move over, Oprah. I’m feeling lazy today, well, it is only 5:51 in the morning. Still, I thought I’d share a few (dozen) of my favorite things. . .

Craig, my girls, my parents, my brother, Sage dog, my extended family, my friends, my sorors — and here I must take a pause for a major shout out to the First and Finest, the lovely ladies of

and I’m back. . .

my blankie (yes, I said it), reading, cooking, baking, travel, scrapbooking, my new Dansko MaryJanes (love, love, love them!), the smell of clean laundry, when the seasons change from summer to fall, Heroes, comic books, Wonder Woman, Wolverine, proper prior planning, pound cake, pumpkin spice cookies, losing weight at Weight Watchers, my health, learning new things, working out, working hard, Netflix, eBay, current events, being knowledgeable, the library, the aquarium, my sun/moon/stars robe, my hair (though the color is still up for discussion), dancing, drawing, sometimes drawing pictures for Morgan, a good margarita, laughing, laughing hard, watching football, playing tennis, fencing, writing things down, making lists, crossing things off, clean countertops, making other people laugh, playgroups, quiet time, naps, good sleep, hugs and loves, books, magazines, long showers, the beach, good memories, words, ocean sounds, photos, picture frames, photo albums, other people’s photos, vacuum tracks in the carpet, apple pie, iTunes, manicures, pedicures, all things bright and beautiful, mermaids, Sade, classical music Wednesdays, Tchaikovsky, Bizet, Bolero, Wikipedia, musical theatre, New York City, Paris, Costa Maya, Martha’s Vineyard, Black Dog, quality time. . .

So, it’s been about 3 months since I last colored my hair and I have been scratchin’ like Tyrone Biggums ready to make some changes. Usually, I go reddish in the fall and into the winter, my holiday color. I reserve the light browns and blondes for summer. Today, however, I decided to change it up. I get my color, my gloves on, I pick out the ‘fro and away we go. The box says “Light Golden Brown”, but the mix is like a cider color with nutmeg sprinkles. “Whatever”, I think, shrugging my shoulders and parting my hair into the appropriate 4 sections. Yeah, I start that way, then my arms get tired and I just squirt the whole mess onto my scalp and mash it around.

The directions say to leave it on for 25 minutes or “whatever you decided based on your strand test” — like I ever do a strand test. 25 minutes fly by, especially when you are juggling the baby, emptying the dishwasher, getting the gym bag together for tomorrow, trying to watch the Ravens/Patriots game and check your email. It was more like 30 or 35 minutes. Hey, potato, po-tah-to. When I go back into the bathroom, it looks like a scene from CSI after they’ve sprayed that UV spray to find evidence of blood. My dye colored fingerprints are on the sink, the counter, the mirror (wth?) and the floor (double wth?). I don’t remember playing Twister. I clean it up, loving those Mr. Clean all purpose wipes, jump in the shower, rinse, rinse, rinse and condition. I wipe the steam off the mirror and ta daaaaaa!!

I’m a red-head.

WTH?

Sadly, I have no witty or pithy quote to accompany this missive, but it looks like the only thing light golden brown are my eyes. Those are about to go the way of the hair (as in red), if I don’t go to bed soon.

“The measure of who we are is what we do with what we have.” — Vince Lombardi

When people ask me how I’m doing, I often say, “I’m doing the best I can the best way I know how,” so when I saw this quote, it really spoke to me. In a nutshell, it really describes my approach to life and all the things that cross my path as I navigate through it. But the more I think about it, the more I ask myself, “Why am I measuring myself, anyway?” When you become a parent, you’re often told not to compare your children with the little prodigy down the street or to compare your first born with your second born (sorry big brother, but I am the favorite), but no one ever stops to remind you — as a parent or otherwise — not to compare yourself to anyone else. I mean, why be your own worst critic? Considering all the things that I get accomplished in a day, or even before 9am, how is it that find time to pick myself apart and see where I stand on the sticker chart of success? Part of my problem is that I work super hard, trying to do everything and be all things to all people in order to scratch that ever present itch for admiration. I’m an admiration addict. The truth of the matter is that the only thing I get is stressed out and I can measure that amount of stress by the bucketful.

So, I’m working on doing the best I can the best way I know how and measure my success by my ability to honestly say that yes, this is the best that I can do as a wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend. Everything else. . .well sometimes you just have to leave it for another day.

This is hilarious. . .

Look at my little elves. . .

http://www.elfyourself.com/?id=1135215091