What's in a name? Well it has nothing to do with a rose, I can tell you that.

I've been a parent long enough to know that no matter what I do, no matter what I say, I will always, inevitably, mess up something.

Little gaffes will go unnoticed by everyone but me. Slightly larger ones will be noticed by my husband or a close friend. Big parenting fuck ups will have tongues wagging long enough to make me want to hide in my room with the covers over my head until the next scandal. Thankfully, I haven't made one of those mistakes yet but let's face it, it's only a matter of time. This is me we're talking about.

Then there are those parenting failures that no one considers mistakes but I know they are and there's nothing anything you can do to make me think differently. So there.

Case in point, I named my child the wrong name.

Back before we had Caroline* (AKA - CC.) I asked for help in naming my child. That's right, I asked the internet, complete strangers in some cases, to help me name my baby. And you did help and it was awesome. I not only got help narrowing down my search for the perfect baby name but you also shared stories with me about naming your own children and in some cases the story behind your name. And then we all sang kumbaya and ate some s'mores.

The list had all the names my husband and I considered worthy of our blessed spawn and methodically I worked through that list and crossed off one name after another for one reason or another until we came to an agreement about which we liked best, to be revisited once we could look upon the baby and give her a name that suited her best. I call it an agreement, Mr. C calls it taking into account his wishes for one specific name and then summarily squashing that idea and choosing one I liked better. Potato - potahto.

Finally (seriously), the magical day came when I pushed an 8 pound baby from my lady parts who really, really did not want to come out. There was much rejoicing and crying... maybe more crying than rejoicing - pretty sure she was holding on by her fingernails in there - and when the nurse, or maybe the doctor (fingernails, sharp ones), asked what my perfect cherub of a daughter was to be called, I said, "Caroline."

And then I wanted to kick myself in the kidneys because it wasn't right.

But it seemed too late to correct it. Everyone was calling her Caroline. They were cooing her name, "Sweet, sweet Caroline". My husband was, probably intelligently, keeping his mouth shut about the whole thing. We told our then two year old that her sister's name was Caroline. She called her "Baby Sister Carowine". It was such a perfect moment it would have made a bystander want to smack someone in the head, so overwhelming was the adorableness.

For the next couple of days I tried out the name on my perfect, beautiful, angry, squalling infant. For the next few weeks I tried out the name on my perfect, beautiful, angry, refused to sleep more than 45 minutes at a time infant. For the next few months I tried out the name on my perfect, beautiful, OMG CHILD WILL YOU PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS GOOD AND HOLY SLEEP FOR ONCE???

What was I saying?

Then when she was around four months old it hit me - The Perfect Name.

I can't believe it hadn't occurred to me before. The Name was a perfect combination of my Nana's name and Mr. C's Nana's name. It was a name that could easily transition from childhood into adulthood and could even be shortened into a cute nickname. Not to put too fine a point on it but it really was The Perfect Name.

And no, I'm not sharing it. I have a hard enough time not referring to my kid in private by the name. But don't think I don't think about it. A lot.

Not only did I goof on her name but I gave her a name that there is always a chance will be either spelled or pronounced incorrectly. After living with mine for as long as I have, I swore I would never do that to my kids. Now people refer to her as Carolyn. Oops, my bad.

In the grand scheme of things this really isn't bad. Let's call it a Whoopsie. One day she'll ask if she was ever going to be called something else and before telling her I'll remind her of that time I picked her up from school 30 minutes late in mismatched shoes with my hair not brushed and insisted on slowing down in front of that cute boy from school while yelling, "Yoohoo! Want a ride, sailor?"

It should soften the blow.

Introducing Murgatroyd Sparkles Sarsaparilla. It's so obvious, I don't know why it took me so long to think of it.

*After five years of blogging I think it's time to use their real names. They're both somewhere on this blog anyway.

The Feral Woodland Monkey Child of Awesome

See this kid?



She’s awesome.

She’s almost always filthy, half naked, with her hair in her face, climbing something incredibly dangerous and sticking sharp things toward her face on purpose. While wearing a cowboy hat.

Like I said, she’s awesome.

I don’t know where she came from - probably from that whacked-out, crazy part of my family, which if I’m being honest is most of them so the odds were good I’d get at least one child who was just this side of cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs - but she’s mine and despite her penchant for scaling walls and laying on top of the wood stove while watching SpongeBob and eating stolen carbohydrates, I love her madly.

Because she’s made of awesome it makes up for all the sleepless nights/gray hairs/added trips to my therapist. Mostly.


Look at her. If you didn't know her you’d think from her diminutive size she’d be the quiet, retiring type. You’d think because she’s a female child she wouldn’t have the ability to make the other little boys her age run away in terror, crying real tears to their mothers. You’d think from the dresses and sparkly necklaces she wears she’d be a feminine, girly girl. But you’d be wrong. She's just herself - which is awesome.

She plays in the toilet, destroys books, sits on top of upright pianos, dumps the contents of full cereal boxes onto the floor and then sits next to the 90 pound dog to share the reward, uses both hands to eat her food even though she can, oh yes she can, use a fork and spoon. She’s not going to preschool for another year but her future teachers have been warned she’s coming. They are ready because they have seen her and I do believe they understand the awesome headed their way.

You have to love her, because she is awesome.

She’s not afraid to stand up for herself, hold her ground and protect what she believes to be hers. She will tell you about her day in great detail and you’d be lucky to understand five words - because frankly, they’d be awesome words - but she doesn’t care because darnit, she’s got something to say. She will hold your face to hers to make sure you’re listening intently. And you will, because her stories are... You know.

But at the end of the day when she’s exhausted from being awesome she’ll curl up on my chest like she did when she was even tinier and demand I sing Itsy Bitsy Spider while tickling the actions on her back.

And she sighs.

And she snuggles.

And I’ll do it some more.

Not because she asked but because being with her like that, quiet and still with that perfect little creature, even after she tried to ride the dog like a horse and dumped a bottle of soap all over the bathroom floor and drew in red crayon up the stairs and after a day when even her grandparents couldn’t take her and her antics for another minute... that time with my baby girl is awesome.

Because for a moment OMG SHE'S NOT MOVING. AWESOME!

Step into the heart of darkness. Or as I like to call it, vacation with my kids.

It's been a busy couple of weeks 'round these parts.

Mr. C. took two weeks off in a row for vacation - something virtually unheard of for the man who is looking into having his Blackberry, Macbook AND iPad surgically attached to him, kind of like Iron Man for geeks - so we decided to make the best of it and scheduled not one but two separate vacation trips. First up, Story Land in the beautiful White Mountains of New Hampshire.

Don't know about Story Land? It's an amusement park best suited for the under 10 year old set that's been in operation since the 1950's. It's quaint, it's heavy on the Mother Goose motif, the only way out is through Ye Olde Gift Shoppe of Doom. It's awesome. I went there as a kid, as did Mr. C., and by jeebus our kids were going too! So we went. Along with half of New England.

Okay I'm exaggerating. Only a third of New England was there. We went mid-week when it was slow.

The kids loved Story Land and we're planning on going again next year. Because next year, poor CC won't be stuck in a stroller most of the time. Maybe. She has a tendency to wander and a stubborn streak as big as Texas and shut up, husband of mine, she DOES NOT GET THAT ENTIRELY FROM ME. At least I only wander when there's something shiny to look at and not every time we encounter something that plugs into the wall.

CC had a good time, though. We threw her in a germ-infested pit of plastic balls and she was happy as a toddler in a germ-infested pit of plastic balls.


One of the highlights, for Chicky at least, was Cinderella's Kingdom:



A place I thought for sure would be skipped. My daughter loves pirates and beating up little boys, but she can take or leave a Princess. But on this occasion, bring on the sparkles! And I mean that almost literally.

Want to see something that strikes fear in my heart and wakes me up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat?

*shudder*
Look into my eyes. You will buy me a $15 soft serve ice cream and there's nothing you can do about it. And I'll take that row of stuffed Humpty Dumpty's too.

Dude. Just... DUDE. When we saw the face painting stand I thought for sure she was going to ask for the SpiderMan or the one that looked like a snake was eating the wearer's face but no, she went for... that. Whatever that is.

Come to think of it, sans fake gold crown on her forehead and that was me in high school. Only I wore more blue eyeshadow.

She had to be coaxed to sit on Cinderella's lap. To be fair, I'm pretty sure she took Cinderella for what she was - an underpaid, blond teenage girl in a dress that look suspiciously like the one I wore to a prom in '87. So she just stood next to her. All the better to make a quick getaway from.

Cinderella needs more blue eyeshadow.

Later in the trip we took the girls to Santa's Village, another place I had been to as a kid, and I'm not going to get into that trip except to say there was a very large cross and a huge nativity scene there and I'm sorry but you're not going to rationalize that away enough for my heathen liking.

I'd show you pictures of my children posed on sleighs and standing next to fake penguins and elves, just as I had a wee child, but I lost most of them in the great iPhoto crash of '10. They may still be on my memory card or they may be on my hard drive or I may have been ready to start shooting tequila at that point so let's move on.

The next week after barely any rest from four days in New Hampshire we set off for my sister's house on Cape Cod. If you have a relative who lives near an ocean and happens to own an eating and drinking establishment, I highly recommend you take them up on the offer to stay with them. Especially if that relative has extra bedrooms so you don't have to spend another week with your beautiful but non-sleeping children and has a seemingly never-ending reserve of wine. I'd show you pictures but I don't have many. Much too busy sleeping and eating and drinking and laying in the sun and Story Land who?

Which leads me to today - A mountain of laundry and a house in questionable condition, I still haven't caught up on my sleep and three days until I leave for BlogHer to get it all done. And no never-ending supply of wine.

Dude.