Why You Might Want to Ask a Few People What They Think of Your Potential Baby Name

At the park today I met a little girl who I thought at first was named Cheryl.  Cheryl, I thought, there’s a name you don’t hear very often, especially not on two year olds.

But then, as her parents extolled the virtues of their preschool and how glad they were that the two year old class was being split in two, because there really is such a difference between a 24 month old and a 35 month old, I realized they were calling her Feryl.  Or perhaps they’re big fans of Old School and they named her after Will Ferrell?  You know giving your kids last names as first names is very stylish.

Yes, Ferrell.

Or, as I heard it, Feral.

They named their darling baby Feral.  And they’re trying to pass that name off as something classy.  America, I have no words.  My dad has this theory that when a kid turns 13, she or he should be allowed not to change his or her name, but to legally change his or her parents’ names, so that if you find your parents have named you Feral, you can name them, oh, I don’t know, Untamed and Wild, so you all match.

Complete and Total Panic, but No Crying Yet

I am in a complete panic.  This is the irrational stage of panic, where I’m just panicked in complete disproportion to the actual need to panic.  I mean, the Shill and I got a lot accomplished.  My room is about three boxes away from being done, if that.  The downstairs is about half done and the bathroom can’t be tackled until right before we go.  So, I mean, for it being a week before we move, we’re in fine shape.

But holy shit.  No, I am no good.  I yelled at the Butcher on the phone because the house is not ready–his room is not painted.  The paint supplies are all still in the sink in the kitchen, which means the kitchen still feels like a mess to me.  None of the outlets or light switches have face plates on them again yet.  And I wanted to sweep and Murphy Oil the floors one more time and we’ve got some paint to get up off the floors.

It’s not an enormous amount, but it’s a lot considering that we’ve still got to get this place packed up.  I am begging the Universe that the Butcher actually has people lined up to move us on Saturday.

And I yelled at the Butcher because he spent the weekend watching football instead of… well, and see, this is where I think I’m really unfair to him.  I want him to be as panicked and upset as me.  That’s what it comes down to.  He’s all like “Don’t worry.  We can finish up on Friday.” and I don’t feel reassured by that.  I feel like he just fucking doesn’t get it.

But I am in such a fit that I literally cannot turn the bitch off to express that in any kind of rational way.  So, I feel bad about that.

So, my dad’s coming back.  He’s going to get the house taken care of.  Yes, it’s crazy.  Yes, there’s no gas in town.  Yes, again, I know, it’s crazy to have him drive down here from Illinois to get the house done, but you know what?  I don’t give a shit.

When I talk to my dad, I hear in his voice that he gets it–how completely fucking freaked out I am and how I just need one other fucking person on this planet to understand how enormous this feels to me and who, when they understand that, is moved by it and I need that person to be related to me.

I mean, don’t get me wrong.  I am so grateful, I mean, cross the parking lot on my knees grateful that the Shill came down and that we got as much done as we did.  Holy shit am I grateful for that.

So, it’s fucked up.  There’s deep ancient family shit going on with this whole move thing and, if I had time, I’d sit around and analyze it and come to some understanding.  But right now, I’m just like “Thank the gods that I have friends and family who are willing to put up with my shit and continually help me through messes of my own making.”  I am so deeply, deeply thankful for that.  Soul deep.