Tag Archives: family

Pseudonyms in Blogland

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I have been thinking – for quite awhile – about giving my family pseudonyms in blogland. I read many bloggers who do this – and they all have funny/appropriate/applicable names they have chosen for their loved one. Names which give their family members anonymity, yet also describe their personalities to some degree – I assume!

I love this idea. I love that I then wouldn’t have to call my husband “him/he”, or call my son “my son” or confuse you readers when describing my two daughters.

I have finally arrived – due to a new acquisition in our household – upon my chosen names. It’s only taken me a year.

My husband: The Sailboat King. More about this in a moment.

My son: Jack Pumpkin Head. (He’s 12. Need I say more?) I hope that using this name isn’t an infringement on L. Frank Baum’s copywrite. I tried to check but had no luck on turning anything up.

My oldest daughter: Meep. This has been her nickname for years, so it seemed appropriate.

My youngest daughter: Boo. When I was young we had a cat named Boo. She was a bit feisty. We named (with permission from her soon-to-be owners) one of our current kittens “Calli Boo” and she is an explorer, a runner, a cutie. ‘Nuf said.

Now for the explanation about my husband’s moniker.

I came to my husband a couple weeks ago with a request. A kinda major request that involves free airmiles and being away from home. He, looking slightly relieved and slightly guilty at the same time, said, “I’m glad you asked because I want to ask you something too.”

He wanted permission – my blessing ? – to buy a small sailboat. A Laser, to be exact.

The upshot: I am going out – with the kids – to Washington again this summer, and he went out to Wisconsin – with two of the kids – and bought the boat.

Then, of course, he had to sail it. I forgot that risking his life would be involved in this agreement.

Okay, perhaps I’m exaggerating. He can swim well and he wears his lifejacket. When he remembers.

The only picture I have of The Sailboat King with his boat. Don't worry. There will be more to come in the future!

He took the boat out the first time with his mentor-in-sailing, his boss, sailing alongside in a sailboat of his own. Everything went well.

He then took it out for the second time by himself. In 25 mph northerly winds. To the western end of the lake.

He’s a determined guy.

Two friends, at separate times, passing by on their drive around the lake, stopped to watch as he struggled against God and the wind to get the boat in the water. They, the luckies, drove away. I, on the other hand, had to watch as he tacked across the bay, nearly spilling at least once, and decided that the errands I had meant to run while he sailed would have to wait while I put “911” into my speed dial.

The kids and I sat in the car and winced watched. Finally, after what felt like ages, but really was only about 15 minutes, he came in to shore, happy that he’d proven he could sail in such winds…and freely admitting that he would not likely ever do it again…at least, not on purpose.

I am pleased to say that nothing was wrecked or lost despite the spills the boat took while being launched and landed. I am displeased to say that I had forgotten to reinsert my memory card into my camera so I have no shots to prove any of this ever happened.

The next day we saw one of the friends who had stopped to marvel at The Sailboat King’s tenacity.

He was pleased that The King was still alive.

As am I.

Now…and Later

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Since my first child was born, 12 ½ years ago, I have not heard an entire sermon on a Sunday morning. I have not caught an entire radio broadcast. I have not read an entire chapter of a book, page by page, sans interruption. Well, at least not during daylight hours.

I have not been able to fit into the same jeans. Or the same shoes. Or the same category.

I have gone into the grocery store and bought things that, prior to motherhood, I would have never bought before. Things like Captain Crunch. (Yes, I’m that kind of mother.) Or whole milk. Or Fruit Snacks by the dozen.

I have, possibly, finished a cup of coffee while it was still hot. Possibly. I have learned to make Halloween costumes because I’m THAT kind of mother. I have decided that Ramen noodles – as long as you add frozen peas to the hot water – are a legitimate food group. I have, once or twice, sat though movies I found to be unpallatable, simply because my kids thought that they were wonderful.

I have become a Girl Scout leader (albeit a fairly lame one) because someone needed to do it. I have waited in the line to pick up my children from school day after day after day because having my child come home from school happy rather than in tears is worth the time and gas. Yes, it interrupts my afternoon, especially as we live 10 miles out of town, but I’m a stay-at-home mom and this is my job. This is my calling.

I have had, in these 12 ½ years, more hugs and kisses than I’d had in the previous 29 years. I have had more stress. I have had more satisfaction. I have had more heartache. I have had more joy. I have had more interruptions. I have had more affirmation.

I have become more impatient. I have become more compassionate. I have become more…complete.

The diaper bag in question. Still complete with diapers and Desitin.


And so, in the interests of completion, I now complete a job I began when my first child was born. I now, in the presence of you witnesses, officially relinquish my youngest child’s diaper bag. I have not needed to carry a diaper bag for more than a year, however, I recently found said bag shoved in a corner of my bedroom where it has waited for months because I wasn’t ready to face the truth that she doesn’t need it anymore. That my smallest child is getting big. That I no longer need this link with her babyhood.

I hereby admit that I am grieving a ridiculous loss.

In light of this admonition, I promise that I will now strive to embrace the next 12 ½ years – in which I’ll see my kids go to school dances, learn to drive, apply for colleges, perhaps even get married. I’ll see two of them graduate, and I’ll face the specter of the empty nest.

I will not promise not to hoard their scribbled notes. I cannot promise that I won’t cherish their handmade gifts, their family portraits, their outgrown socks. And I fully anticipate that I’ll shove something away in a corner of my room – a drawing from pre-school, or a report card, or a forgotten permission slip – because I won’t be able to admit that they are really gone.

Because to admit that will mean that I am old.

And then I will be the one fidgeting on the pew next to their father.

Then again…maybe we’ll take off for Italy and thank our lucky stars that we are free.

Nah.

Well…maybe.