Puppy-Baby Love

Some of the most interesting reactions to the baby aren't from the humans in our lives, but rather the animals. All three of the dogs that live in or frequent my house have their own unique approaches to the impending bundle of joy.

Molly, the miniature pinscher-chihuahua cross, is a mother herself. In her previous home, she was bred incessantly until her escape.  I ask her for mothering advice from time to time, but she remains pretty closed about her pregnancies. The other evening, Molly, who could moonlight as a heating pad, was sitting on my lap, nestled against my bump. After a few minutes, the baby started kicking Molly. She was completely unphased and relaxed as the baby continued his "attack".

Zoe, my "niece" chihuahua, had a completely different reaction to the baby's activity. While the baby didn't outright kick Zoe, every time he moved, Zoe would shake violently. Baby moves, Zoe sh-sh-sh-shakes. Baby moves, Zoe sh-a-a-a-akes. Eventually, finding our cuddling intolerable, Zoe jumped down and sat by herself on the loveseat. That night, however, Zoe had to share my bed and I woke up around five in the morning to her and the baby playing footsie through my abdominal cavity. I can't decide what hurts more: the foot of a 23 week-old fetus or a five year-old chihuahua. Jerks.

Brisco, the longest-standing member of the trio, and I have always had a love-hate relationship. I love him; he hates me. Whenever I would hold or kiss him, he would growl, show his teeth and wiggle to free himself from my grasp. However, he seems to be softening in his old age, allowing me to tug his ears, open his mouth and gently pull his tail in an attempt to acclimatize him to the potential "loving" he might receive from our curious baby. Brisco, however, may be jealous when my mom decides to take every conceivable opportunity to hold her grandbaby and not pet her beloved "Brizzy".

When my mom was expecting me, my aunt's boyfriend owned a pitbull named Tiger. Apparently Tiger would rub his face on my mom's belly whenever he'd see her. After I was born, Tiger recognized me, nuzzling his face into me as I lounged in my car seat. Pitbull. One week-old baby. Trapped in a carseat. Nice.

Pukes McGee

After a few days of good mornings, with no signs of morning sickness or nausea, I threw up this morning. It was only water, which I foolishly drank, thinking my body would cooperate with me, as it had in previous days. I felt a bit...gaggy and headed to the washroom, hoping it would pass, only to bring up the three quarters of a water bottle I had ingested fifteen minutes earlier.

This gives me hope, however, that perhaps from here on out, I'll have less morning sickness. That's better than a kick in the pants...or pee in the pants from heaving so hard.

Sugar & Spice & Everything Inquisitive

Working with kids has always been a font of amusing stories, strange revelations and astute observations. Being pregnant around hoards of five to nine year-old girls is turning out to be a hilarious (and adorable) experience.

Yesterday, three little girls sat down with me to make paper crystals at work. First, we talked about crystals, but the conversation soon digressed to discussing my marital status and baby-related questions. One little girl, McKinley, shares a birthstone with me. I told her I have a ring with a pearl in it.

"Are you married?" she asked, wide-eyed. "No, I'm not" I replied. She tucked her hands under her chin and tilted her head to the side. "Are you dating?" she inquired, dreamily. I told her yes and that maybe one day I might get married, after my baby is born. That seemed to satisfy her curiosity.

Next came a barrage of questions from Sandrine about the baby. "Do you know what you'll call the baby?" Sandrine asked, followed by the ever popular "Do you know if it's a boy or a girl?" I said no and McKinley piped up, "She hasn't had her x-ray yet!" I laughed and said I did have my ultrasound, but we want to be surprised. "What do you thiink I should have?" I pressed. "Hmmmm. A girl!" all three declared almost simultaneously. "Why?" I asked. "Boys act like gangsters," one replied matter-of-factly. Like Al Capone? Or Coolio? I was confused.

Today, I visited our daycamp to do some science experiments with the group. The girls had a ton of baby name questions for me as I was cleaning up the elephant's toothpaste and lithium chloride mess. I asked them for suggestions, which was met with a variety of normal -Emma, Brittany- to pretty -Ariana, Lily- to Disney -Ariel- to off-the-wall -Ferret. "Ferret?" I asked. "Yup!" the little girl replied. "Like the animal?"..."Uh huh!"..."Yeah, maybe not Ferret." No one can say she wasn't thinking outside the box...or the cage...on that one. Besides, if we were going for animal-inspired, I think "Little Monkey" would be a better choice.

Roughin' It

Babydaddy, tasked with packing the car for camping, encountered a few delays and challenges while I was working on Friday. His Oma needed some medical expertise and assistance, which he provided willingly. I forgot our bathing suits at my parents' house, which he needed to go pick up, along with a jar of my mom's famous pickles. He also found himself trapped in a long line at the Tim Horton's drive-thru. By the time we left for West Hawk, it seemed as though we had everything we needed to survive the weekend.

When we arrived at our very open, poorly situated campsite, we opened up the car and I pulled out the tent. It seemed very light, as I was able to toss it onto a patch of grass with ease. "Honey?" I asked. "Did you bring the poles?" Babydaddy stared at me with wide eyes. "Aren't they in there?" He ripped open the bag and unfurled our tent. Nary a pole in sight. Crap. I started crying, of course, and Babydaddy frantically patched together a plan.

That night we "roughed it" by staying in a motel. With a decent bed and an indoor washroom and a fridge. The following afternoon, Stinky and my BIL came out with a huge tent, their dog Zoe and no pillows to stay the night with us. I played with Zoe while the Three Stooges set up the tent and then we all had a nap. On the trusty Coleman stove -that took four people with seven degrees between them too long to start- we made a dinner of rice, smokies, chicken, veggies and corn on the cob. Babydaddy did the washing up and shortly thereafter, once we realized we could see our breath, we all hunkered down for the night to prevent frost bite.

I fell asleep first. Then the fun began. Every couple of hours, I woke up, freezing, with a full bladder that required immediate evacuation! I would reluctantly get up, put on some shoes and stagger to the washroom -watching out for bears- to relieve myself. A few hours later the cycle would start all over again. And again. How much did I have to drink?!

Once the sun rose, Babydaddy got up to use the washroom too. As he was helping me off the air mattress, I felt something weird on my side. I put my hand up my shirt to find a plastic bag full of tea bags stuck to my skin. Babydaddy said that the bag had fallen out of his hoodie pocket during the night. I asked him if he would brag to his friends that he teabagged me during our camping trip?

Sure, I complained during the trip. I even cried. But at least I can say I did it. I camped during my second trimester. And we're all still alive to laugh about it later.

A-camping we will go...

Babydaddy, being the brave soul he is, has agreed to take me camping this weekend. He's pretty sure I'll complain the entire time and whine about sleeping on an air mattress. Far be it for me to prove him wrong, so I make no promises...but I'm actually very much looking forward to a little camping adventure. The fresh air, chipmunks and proximity to the lake are exactly what I want right now.

We're bringing along everything but the kitchen sink; including more pillows than two adults should need, a pile of books and smores supplies. I'm finding myself so hot lately -my temperature is high, too!- that I've packed a wide range of outfits to accommodate for sweating, stretching and general annoyance with whatever is covering my body. Too bad West Hawk has a pesky clothing non-optional policy!

Just a few more hours til "take off" and I can't wait to argue while setting up the tent and then kick back with our feet up, enjoying the outdoors and some cold juice or beer -depending on whether you're talking about mommy or daddy. Update to follow, provided we don't get eaten by bears!

Duck Duck Doctor

When we went to our first prenatal appointment, Babydaddy and I were surprised when my OBGYN walked in the exam room with a huge baby bump of her own. When she offered us a congratulations, we responded in turn, with trepidation in our voices...who will deliver our baby? Do we need to find a new doctor? Are we being callous? The doctor recognize our unspoken panic and assured us we would be assigned to a new doctor. A relief swept over me, but I was concerned -I like my doctor and was comfortable seeing her instead of a midwife when Babydaddy voiced his preference for an MD.

The first few appointments were with the original doctor and yesterday we met with our new OB for the first time. She was great! During our usual barrage of questions, she was patient and addressed all our concerns. She seems to genuinely enjoy her job and I left feeling comfortable and happy with our doctoral luck!

Ultra-cool-and-exciting-sound

Yesterday, we got to see our baby for the first time at the ultrasound! The entire day leading up the appointment, I was a ball of nerves, anxiety and anticipation. Part of me was worried we wouldn't be allowed to see the baby for one reason or another, or the sonographer would be a grouch and not appreciate the emotions attached to this momentous pregnancy milestone.

Kim, the sonographer, was actually incredibly nice...and patient, because apparently our little monkey was moving the entire time, making it challenging to get all the right images for the doctor. This meant that the exam took longer than a typical ultrasound; Babydaddy was so excited and nervous, he peed twice during the half-hour wait before he was called into the room.

Once he was standing at my side, Kim turned the monitor to us and showed us our baby for the first time. The first glimpse I got was a tiny, adorable bottom. "It has your bum, honey!" I said. But the baby moved before Babydaddy could even focus. From there, it laid on its back and wiggled around, moving its arms. What struck me was how long its legs appeared. Babydaddy is definitely long in the trunk, but I'm mostly tall in the legs; the baby appears to have taken after me. Point Mommy!

We bought a sample of photos and promptly showed them off to our parents...apparently grandmas like feet or "feetsies" as they're also known. My dad was impressed by the baby's straight spine and Babydaddy's dad "mistook" the lower leg for a penis. Oh baby!

Celebrate!

To acknowledge the achievement of our 20th week of pregnancy, Babydaddy and I packed a picnic and drove to Winnipeg Beach for the evening. By "packed a picnic", I mean ordered sushi. And sunomono salad. And got a rootbeer Slurpee. It was heavenly.

After we ate our fare, suspiciously eyeing the gang of seagulls shiftily circling our picnic table, we delved into the Baby Name Wizard to continue our quest for the perfect girl's name. Chortling at gems such as "Essence" and "Ethel", we finally hit upon a name that struck a chord with both mommy and daddy. The name stuck with us the rest of the weekend and it appears to be a front runner for our little monkey.

We stayed late at the beach, hoping to catch the Perseid meteor shower, but the brightness of the Moon dashed any hope for a show. Babydaddy went off to piddle against a wall and thinking I could sneak a peak at his junk, I wandered over to glimpse over the wall. A strategically placed hole in the ground thwarted my attempt and I tripped, crushing my ulna and the cookies I was carrying. I scared Babydaddy and cried a bit, mostly because of the cookies.

On our way home, post-failed attempt to view the meteor shower, we were sailing down Highway 8 when something hit the side of Babydaddy's car. We were both startled, but it wasn't until we reached the city that I realized a reddish substance was dripping down my window. "I think it's blood! Maybe a bird hit the car," I said. We laughed that perhaps a severed head had hit the car, but upon arrival at home, realized someone had shot our car with a paintball. SHOT. PAINTBALL. Seriously.

Babydaddy turned into Papa Bear and started making threats to the unknown culprits for potentially endangering the life of his babymama and unborn child -admittedly that shot to the head would've hurt like a sumbitch. I appreciate his protective nature and helped wipe up the mess, after snapping a photo (to be posted!)

The mishaps of our well-intended evening just made for a more memorable celebration. "Remember that time you tried to look at my dink..."

Vomitus Pukus

Each morning I awake with the renewed hope that today's the today I will stop throwing up in the mornings. Each morning I am sorely disappointed as I retch and gag into the sink/toilet/towel.

Sometimes, like this morning, I can predict that I'm going to toss my cookies. A nausea sweeps over me as I rub my eyes and get out of bed. Other mornings, like Saturday, I wait the appropriate amount of time -after 9 am- to eat my breakfast. I feel great. That toast with crabapple jelly was delicious! Milk does a body good! Then I head to the washroom to brush my teeth and before I even put the paste on the brush, I bring up the milk. And then the toast. And more milk. Without warning. Or nausea. Tears streaming down my face -a reflex of the heaving, not a response to the disappointment- I brush my teeth and ponder the waste of time that was bothering with breakfast at all.

Alas, I'm still optimistic that this cycle will end -in December when the baby makes its grand arrival?

Underwear? Underthere...

Finding myself at odds with my changing body, clothing my lower half has been somewhat of a slapstick comedy. My maternity skinny jeans are too big in the hips and bum -which is a miracle of nature, given my typical troubles finding pants to accommodate my expansive hips. I frequently pull my pants up throughout the day, figuring that they will fit better as the baby and my bump grow.

Keeping my underwear up is another story altogether. Some of my pre-pregnancy underwear still fits, but the majority of it has entered a semi-retired phase in the dresser drawer. I've graduated to some ill-fitting bikini briefs, which my body has rejected like an unsuccessful organ transplant. Over the course of the day, the panties kept making their way past my hips and despite my insistence to STAY UP, were compelled by gravity to GO DOWN.

After work, walking to the bus stop, I could feel the panties inching lower and lower with each step. By the time I reached the bus shack, my panties were rolled up under my bum cheeks. There was no polite way of putting my hands down my pants and yanking up my gitch, so I made sure my shirt covered the tell-tale bulge of fabric and sat down. Something about my panties hovering beneath my hips amused me. I giggled a little uncontrollably right there on the bus. By the time I arrived at my front door, the underwear was somewhere closer to my knees. At the rate my panties are dropping, going commando might be the way to go. 

Dream Weaver

My reputation as a vivid dreamer is widespread. I can recall the content of my dreams in great detail and have freaked out a number of people with my nocturnal adventures. After a dream-filled night, I find myself exhausted from being tormented by a giant iguana trying to get into my car or fighting zombies. Some dreams are lovely, like a series of dreams about my grandma after her passing.

When I got knocked up, I read that one of the "symptoms" of pregnancy is crazy dreams. I laughed and thought "Bring it on!" How much weirder could my dreams get? While I think my dreams have been less frequent than any other time in my life, the ones I remember top the charts for their absurdity.

I've had a number of dreams about Baby; he's always a boy. Once I dreamt instead of a baby, I got an orange kitten. The kitten was very bad and I can't remember how it ended. Another recent dream, which disturbed me very deeply, involved me breastfeeding my parents' dog, Molly. I admit I was reluctant to pick her up the next day.

Last night I had an elaborate dream where I was at a retirement home with a big group of elderly women who all wore matching pink nightgowns in a fuzzy material. The nightgowns also had pink lace on the back, at the shoulders. I thought they might be retired nuns, but there were a number of widows in the bunch, so their identity remained a mystery. In the dream, my dad brought them a big flat screen to replace their old TV. He set it up and left. I kept adjusting the TV so all the ladies could see the screen, but everytime I changed the channel, the TV would reorient itself against a wall making it impossible for the majority of the audience to see it. This repeated over and over until my alarm startled me awake. In retrospect, I should've just moved the directions of their chairs.

Babydaddy dreamt that our one-day-old son could hold up his own head. Something, he said, he discovered after forgetting to support the baby's head. I probed him for more details, but as someone who notoriously forgets his dreams, all he could tell me was that the baby had a head full of dark hair.

What other bizarre dreams await me this pregnancy?

Halfway Musings

Today marks the halfway point in my pregnancy. At 20 weeks, Baby is 10 inches from head to heel and weighs over half a pound. Impressive, considering this life started out as a poppyseed. Little Monkey has been quite the mover the past few days and seems to be a creature of habit. I can usually count on movement at certain times of the day or after different activities. Thankfully, he doesn't seem to be up much at night, which could mean a good sleeper!

A coworker told me that children often display preference for food you craved during pregnancy. Her son is a big fan of milk and other dairy, for instance, which she consumed heartily while gestating. Because I generally don't care what I eat, will I have an easy-to-please kid? Or a rootbeer addict with a penchant for sunomono salad -Daddy better teach you karate young, 'cause that's one pretentious sounding lunch!

This morning, one of my volunteers at work nodded his head towards a group of preschool visitors and said "There's a glimpse into your future, eh?" I had to laugh and admire his cute observation. Although I'm looking forward to the baby stage, I can't help up find myself longing for the type of interaction and hilarity a three year old offers.

This weekend, Babydaddy and I will celebrate our pregnancy by...well, I'm not sure how we'll celebrate. Hopefully there will be food involved. Maybe a drive. Maybe an activity. I like...stuff.

Bus Etiquette

For the first few months of my pregnancy, we lived and worked in Brandon, where parking is cheap and bus service leaves a lot to be desired. I drove to work or carpooled with Babydaddy, happily. Returning to Winnipeg and my downtown job, resuming my life as a transit user seemed like the best option. With parking scarce and running no less than eight bucks a day, busing is certainly cheaper. And when the conditions are right, being able to relax and listen to Podcasts or read is lovely.

But the bus has a dark side. During rush hour, when I return home from the museum, the bus can be packed like a clown car. I specifically choose buses and arrange my schedule to avoid peak times and crowds. Yesterday, however, my normally quiet and empty bus was jam packed with patrons. I made my way into the aisle and held onto the handles on the backs of the chairs to brace for the twists and turns as the bus rocketed down Higgins.

My purse repeatedly moved into the space of a seated rider, who scoffed loudly each and every time my bag came her way. I wanted to smack her upside the head. Let's blame the hormones. Or the fact that the previous day, she and a friend were talking so LOUDLY on the bus that I had difficulty hearing my iPod at its highest volume. Either way, I'm 20 weeks pregnant, standing on a speeding bus, as it jerks and slams its brakes. Your comfort, lady, means little to me.  

For years, as a courteous rider, I have surrendered my seat to many a senior, pregnant woman, parent with small children and those with physical limitations. I have done so without question or resentment because standing on the bus is torture. And I loathe to become a forty-something woman who works downtown and commutes by bus, because those people have it rough. They must be unable to stand for any extended period of time and suffer from dementia, since they can't remember what it's like to be pregnant. I still have a good decade ahead of me until it's all downhill.  

F*ck You, Grand Forks

Yesterday, my parents and I headed down to Grand Forks for a day of shopping. My sole intent was to purchase maternity clothes and, if the price was right, pick up some Cherry Dr. Pepper for Babydaddy. We left as the sun was rising, after a night of last minute babysitting for my cousin. I was exhausted before I woke up.

Our first stop was Target. I meandered through the cosmetics section, picking up some perfect grey nail polish and some Yes to Cucumbers face wipes, pleased with my early success. My happiness was short lived as I reached the long-awaited maternity section. The plethora of beautiful, cotton maternity tank tops promised on Target.com was a myth, not unlike the majestic unicorn. In its stead, was a smattering of poly-blends and clearance items that were either transparent or ugly. I tried on a few items, although nothing struck my fancy and I left feeling disappointed.

My Dad decided he wanted to visit Menard's, so I was dropped off at Old Navy, whose maternity section was sure to be more fruitful than Target's. The minute I walked in the door, a friendly greeter asked me if I was looking for anything in particular today. I said "Yes, the maternity section!" She frowned. "We sent all our maternity to Fargo." Oh. My heart sank. I phoned my parents to let them know and then wandered around Old Navy, aimlessly, for half an hour. The baby clothes were adorable, but without knowing the gender of Little Monkey, my options are limited.

Finally, after a pointless stop at Kohl's and TJ Maxx, we arrived at Wal-mart. I hate Wal-mart. But I was hopeful that Wal-mart, of all places, would have a few maternity shirts to tied me over until early fall. The minute I walked in the door, I was hit with the unseemly stench of BO. It wasn't a deodorantless customer, but rather the smell of Wal-mart. How apropos. I grabbed a cart and made my way to the women's section. I circled around and around, looking for the maternity section. No signage anywhere. Unable to locate an associate, I went to the fitting rooms and asked if I could be directed to the maternity area. The employee looked at me and said "We don't have one." I swear my mouth must have dropped open and I exclaimed "What? You've got to be kidding me! This is the only reason I came to Grand Forks! What do your pregnant ladies wear?!" She shrugged "People ask us about the maternity section all the time." Nice. Thanks, Wal-mart.

I blinked back tears and went over to the grocery side of the store. Maternity shopping might have been a bust, but at least I could still make Babydaddy happy with some Cherry Dr. Pepper, right? Apparently not. A box of twelve cans was a whopping $4.38. I know he would never spend that kind of money on pop, so I walked away. Even K-Mart, which claimed to be "BIG" on their sign, had nary a pregnancy outfit in the store.

I slept most of the ride to the border. When we went inside to pay duty, the officer looked at me with my pathetic receipts, and asked "Is this all you spent?" I pouted. "Sadly, it is." He pushed the receipts and my passport back to me and said "Have a good day!" At least I didn't have to pay duty. Falling into bed around 9:30, I slept for eleven hours, catching up on the winks I lacked the night before.

Next time, I'll be making the extra jaunt to Fargo. And f*ck you, Grand Forks. You pregnant-women-hating mecca of doom.

Time Warp

At 19 weeks pregnant, I find myself vascillating between two very differing points. One is that I'm barely halfway through my pregnancy and I'm tired. My feet are sore from days of standing and walking, although fortunately, I show no signs of swelling. When I am hungry, I feel like a voracious bear ready to kill anything -or anyone- standing in my way. Otherwise, it takes me forever to eat and other than sunomono salad, nothing particularly appeals to me. Recently, a stranger said that my due date is "so far away"...who's thinking about Christmas and New Year's in August? Ugh!

Another part of me can't believe how quickly the summer is slipping through my fingers. My last haircut, in early May, feels like yesterday and yet I'm in dire need of another one. Between now and Little Monkey's arrival, I have so much to do...research and purchase a car seat, stroller and crib. Take the prenatal and infant classes we've signed up for. Enroll in a second prenatal yoga session. Work. Plan our trip to Chicago, go on said trip. Register for baby things. Do all my Christmas shopping and wrap gifts. Knit. Make the most of my free time before it's eaten up by breastfeeding, laundry, diapering, cuddling and staring at the baby.

When I was seeing Harry Potter on the weekend, I caught the preview for the new Sherlock Holmes movie. It looks great. And is coming out in December. "December?" I whispered to Niki. "What's that supposed to mean?" He responded, "Probably Christmas Day." I looked down at my bump and begged "Please wait 'til Mommy sees Sherlock Holmes in the theatre, ok?"

An acquaintance I ran into asked my due date. When I told her the end of December, she said, in all sincerity, "Wow, that's coming up quick!" Which is it? Quick or not? Why is time so subjective? And do I want to rush through my pregnancy or take it slow? Given how the heat is getting my goat, I'd opt for fast. Bring it on, Fall!

Maternity Wear (and When)

At the beginning of my pregnancy, I thought I'd be able to wear my regular clothes throughout the summer and into early autumn. Apparently, I was mistaken. For over a month, a pile of unwearable formerly loved clothes has accumulated in my bedroom. Babydaddy ripped a shirt out of the pile in its earliest incarnation, declaring "I love this shirt on you...don't throw it out!" I laughed at him. "Honey, I just can't wear it right now; I'm not throwing it out!" Also, what about all the other clothes in the pile?!

That said, I've collected a few maternity items, including a pair of skinny jeans that don't quite stay up and a few shirts that are either more autumnesque or too big for my current bump. As the weather continues to bless us with high temperatures and a Humidex that routinely soars well above thirty, I find myself wanting to wander around in ill-fitting panties and a bra. I've been told, however, that is not "appropriate" for work or other social settings.

This weekend, I've bookmarked time to acquire a few extra maternity shirts to see me through the summer...and then I'll be on the hunt for cold weather clothes, including the elusive maternity winter coat. Being pregnant over several extremely different seasons is proving to be one of the biggest challenges...as my bathing suit struggles to contain my growing belly, I cross my fingers that my feet don't swell so I can still wear my good old winter boots.

Astro Baby!

Baby is becoming more and more active lately...mostly doing somersaults and tumbling acts, using my bladder as a safety net. Certain activities or stimulation seem to set him on a high-wire adventure, ricocheting off the side of my uterus in a happy rhythym.

The first time I felt a real, honest to goodness movement was during the Beatles Matinee Laser Show down at the ol' planetarium. I had done the show a few times already and was comfortable to sway to the stylings of John, Paul, George and Ringo. The song made me think of Babydaddy and how much I love him...When I'm 64, which we sang together once on one of our many trips to Winnipeg when we lived in Brandon. Perhaps it was my joyful state, the sound of the music or a crazy coincidence, but Little Monkey choose that time to attempt his first foray into acrobatics.

Since then, I can count on some movement following the Beatles show and lots of movement during and after my live planetarium shows. Does Baby love astronomy that much? Or is it my booming, microphoned voice he has come to know and (hopefully) love? I'm sure this child will display signs of nerdery from an early age, but hopefully it's Mommy's voice that fuels the circus in my womb.

You're a Wizard, Baby Name Book!

Post-first viewing of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part Two, my friend Niki and I went to McNally for a peruse. I decided it was time to officially purchase a baby name book, instead of relying on iPod apps and the Internet. There were plenty of name books to choose from, boasting of pages laced with 15,000 choices or unique names or revival of old-timey names reviling the common names of today.

My quality-control technique consisted of me picking up a book, looking up my favourite girl's name and rejecting it on the spot if it wasn't there. Furthermore, I thought, what good is a book with such lucrative "information" as sixteen alternate spellings for a regular ol' name? As someone with an alternatively spelled first name, I find nothing innovative or unique about Wyllyam vs. Wilium vs. WILLIAM. You're only setting your child up for a lifetime of "Actually, it's W-Y-l-l-Y-a-m" and trust me, it's disheartening.

I picked up a lovely looking book called The Baby Name Wizard by Laura Wattenberg, flipped to the girls section and VOILA, there was my girl's name. Instead of a list of weird spellings, this book features categories, elaborated in the book's narrative, detailing the general feeling and impression of the name, nicknames, suggestions for sibling names, meaning if pertinent and other social-historical contexts. Each name also includes a graph detailing when -if ever- the name was most popular.

It must hold some clout; I looked up one of my sister's names and among the sibling suggestions was my name! Needless to say, I bought the book and immediately started researching potential names. Narrowing down choices might be more difficult than I initially thought!