Our culture has an interesting phenomenon of taking boy names and making them into girl names.
There are Ashley, Jody, Tracy, Taylor, Payton, Jaden, Courtney, Leslie, Michael, Laurie, Whitney, Kim, Ariel, Paris ... just to name a few
There are a few names, however, that I think are completely safe from the grasping hands of innovative parents of baby girls.
Take Ralph for instance. Boys, that one is all yours. And Mortimer? Well you're welcome to that one too. The same goes for Bob, Doug, Hank, Bruno, Cesar and Hercules.
Speaking of names, my cousin made a youtube video about how inventive Utahns have become with their names. It's pretty funny.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BfIehCrO4Zs
Friday, November 30, 2012
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Because
(from my Two Sassy Lasses blog)
So, today I watched some bits of a show about body image that has an ... ahem ... questionable title. It was called "How to Look Good Naked." (note: this is not a recommendation. If you just need to chill, I'd say White Collar is a better bet.) I watched pieces from the original British series and a few bits from the American knock-off. The show features a style guru who helps plus-size women with body issues to love the skin they're in. He teaches these ladies how do dress for their body type, how to wear their hair etc. As I saw women who were roughly the same size as me, look into a mirror and feel beautiful for the first time in years, something clicked. I can be beautiful now. And because I am beautiful and strong I am capable of even more greatness in my life. I am striving for slimmer and healthier NOT because I am lacking, but because I am capable of more. I can eat healthy because I am fabulous and I deserve to treat myself well. I can exercise because I love to move. These changes do not add to my worth. I am doing it because I am worth it.
This is a big step for someone who hasn't taken a good look in a full-length mirror for the last six months. So, can I maintain the fire to be better and look better and accept who I am at the same time? Can I stop making excuses for my bad habits and make time for better ones? Can I stop calling myself "chipmunk cheeks" every time I look in the mirror? I don't know, but I sure want to try.
Sunday, November 11, 2012
Picture Perfect
I will forever remember a story my mother related to me. She was chatting with the mother of one of my friends when she noticed that this woman had a beautiful, new family portrait hung on the small, shadowy wall in the bend of their stairs. My mom complimented the beautiful photo and asked why it was hung in this out of the way place. The mother of my friend said that in trying to make this picture as perfect as it could be the entire family had a miserable day. There had been yelling, crying, hurt feelings and general grouchiness. She said that every time she looked at that photo, she remembered the awful feelings she had that day.
Fast forward nearly 20 years to the present. We needed a family picture - one where everyone was in front of the camera. That hasn't happened for us in two years.
Due to my Nutcracker rehearsal schedule and Daylight savings, we only had a 15 minute window in which to catch the light. Of course child #3 would take a late nap. Child #3 wakes up 1/2 ogre and 1/2 wet dishrag. Then there is child #2. Child #2 is a diva when it comes to his clothes. If he can't wear a dirty tee-shirt then life may not be worth living. Well, his picture approved shirt had a collar, and the fit of his pants (which were admittedly a bit big) distressed his style sensibilities past the point of endurance and he flopped onto the couch, enormous tears trickling down his cheek.
I squashed the desire to administer a well-placed, swift kick. I banished the impending sense of photographic disaster. I wanted to be happy. Okay, so not everyone else was going to be happy, but I was not going to let this picture matter more than being nice. A quick dig through last years box of clothes produced a pair of pants, that while three inches too short, did not make my son cry. As for the shirt, with only love and good will I told him he needed to buck up and stop clutching his collar and turning red. I wanted smiles in my picture. I would even let him keep his shirt un-tucked (another stylistic sticking point). However, if he could not manage calming down and smiling in the picture, he would go to bed without dinner the moment the picture taking was done. Despite my calm demeanor he must have sensed the seriousness of that threat.
When my brother in law arrived with his fabulous camera, we all ran outside into the freezing cold. We stood on the sidewalk. "Forget placement, everyone just clump," was the rallying cry.
Child #3 was fine as long as she was facing backward and cried every time we faced her forward. We took a few pictures. We looked at a few of them and found that Child #1 was crossing her arms and making "I am FREEZING" faces in the pictures that were good of everyone else. Child #2, bless his heart, stood there in his floods and untucked shirt and tried to muster a smile. He managed to look stoic.
Not even photoshop would save this one. And you know what? I felt fine with that. That photo will document my reality. It will also document a proud moment for me - despite the stress and dysfunction, I managed to maintain a happy heart, a happy voice and had done everything I could to maintain a happy home. That smile on my face was real. I can look at that picture with no regrets.
We'll go for picture perfect some other year.
Fast forward nearly 20 years to the present. We needed a family picture - one where everyone was in front of the camera. That hasn't happened for us in two years.
Due to my Nutcracker rehearsal schedule and Daylight savings, we only had a 15 minute window in which to catch the light. Of course child #3 would take a late nap. Child #3 wakes up 1/2 ogre and 1/2 wet dishrag. Then there is child #2. Child #2 is a diva when it comes to his clothes. If he can't wear a dirty tee-shirt then life may not be worth living. Well, his picture approved shirt had a collar, and the fit of his pants (which were admittedly a bit big) distressed his style sensibilities past the point of endurance and he flopped onto the couch, enormous tears trickling down his cheek.
I squashed the desire to administer a well-placed, swift kick. I banished the impending sense of photographic disaster. I wanted to be happy. Okay, so not everyone else was going to be happy, but I was not going to let this picture matter more than being nice. A quick dig through last years box of clothes produced a pair of pants, that while three inches too short, did not make my son cry. As for the shirt, with only love and good will I told him he needed to buck up and stop clutching his collar and turning red. I wanted smiles in my picture. I would even let him keep his shirt un-tucked (another stylistic sticking point). However, if he could not manage calming down and smiling in the picture, he would go to bed without dinner the moment the picture taking was done. Despite my calm demeanor he must have sensed the seriousness of that threat.
When my brother in law arrived with his fabulous camera, we all ran outside into the freezing cold. We stood on the sidewalk. "Forget placement, everyone just clump," was the rallying cry.
Child #3 was fine as long as she was facing backward and cried every time we faced her forward. We took a few pictures. We looked at a few of them and found that Child #1 was crossing her arms and making "I am FREEZING" faces in the pictures that were good of everyone else. Child #2, bless his heart, stood there in his floods and untucked shirt and tried to muster a smile. He managed to look stoic.
Not even photoshop would save this one. And you know what? I felt fine with that. That photo will document my reality. It will also document a proud moment for me - despite the stress and dysfunction, I managed to maintain a happy heart, a happy voice and had done everything I could to maintain a happy home. That smile on my face was real. I can look at that picture with no regrets.
We'll go for picture perfect some other year.
Saturday, November 10, 2012
Snow!
Snow! Nearly a foot of it! Heavy, wet, packable snow!
Child #1 was the first to take up the cry this morning. She roused child #2 and #3 and soon all three were pressed against the window. After breakfast the search for mittens and snow-pants began. Once every child was booted and hatted, zipped and cinched they tumbled outside. Snowballs flew. Tongues tasted the whiteness. They churned the pristine blanket which had covered the yard into a wonderland of snow-angels and laughter. Before long, my eldest started tugging on the branches of the apple tree, hoping to make the snow fall on her. In one of those perverse moments that I am sure the angels set up just to entertain themselves, the snow fell off the other side of the tree directly on top of child #3 - who had just pushed back her hood. Priceless.
Note to the recording angels - I want this morning on the home-video of my life.
Child #1 was the first to take up the cry this morning. She roused child #2 and #3 and soon all three were pressed against the window. After breakfast the search for mittens and snow-pants began. Once every child was booted and hatted, zipped and cinched they tumbled outside. Snowballs flew. Tongues tasted the whiteness. They churned the pristine blanket which had covered the yard into a wonderland of snow-angels and laughter. Before long, my eldest started tugging on the branches of the apple tree, hoping to make the snow fall on her. In one of those perverse moments that I am sure the angels set up just to entertain themselves, the snow fell off the other side of the tree directly on top of child #3 - who had just pushed back her hood. Priceless.
Note to the recording angels - I want this morning on the home-video of my life.
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