E se você é cartunista profissional ou amador, aqueles caras que fazem nigaoê em eventos (AreaE, domo aregato gozaimasu!), animador (mesmo que seja daqueles que diz “haháe” e joga aviões de dinheiro pra platéia), tatuador, grafiteiro, sei lá, o que está esperando??? O Penha-Lapa? Junte-se à Morpheus, Icarix e Toonamix!!
E eu continuo sonhando com o dia em que o meu querido Herbie (sim, você mesmo, Herbie!) e a minha muito mais querida Jen despertem para Rosalyn e sua turma…

Fishing through the old clothes, I sigh a lot, all the cute things are just that much too small. We’ve grown past it. I finish eating my leisurely lunch, and while waiting for the cashier, spy a tiny boy, only 3 months, cradled in his mother’s arms as he has his lunch, eyes swollen with lunch stupor. His feet were so very small.

I’m on the bus when a little girl comes on, bundled in winter, cheeks rosy, her perfect little nose poking out, eyes curious and watchful. She stares at me with the no-stare. I’m fairly confident that I’m too far away from her to be really seen, but there’s something about those piercing little globes, like jelly beans or black jujubes.

My entire body cascades in on itself and cries out for more. My arms ache, my womb echoes for a child, my body feels drawn. My children are now children in the fullest sense of the word, and my body, my muscles, my soul shakes in the absence.

The simple unfair fact of knowing this ache after the birthing is complete. It startles me, like a cat shook from it’s sleep, and it angers me, that I couldn’t have felt this 6 years ago, blooming with the cells that would eventually become my first born daughter. Why not then? Why not when I could have reveled in every moment, enjoyed, simply stood in between maidenhood and mother, and accepted it, embraced it? Why only now, when the over is unplugged and in pieces?

I enjoyed the last 5 years. It has been a hard ride, a rough one, the brambles of mental illness entwined with simple achievements like first words (I can’t remember Rosalyn’s, and hope I wrote it down) and birthdays. But these years have been so innocent, comparatively speaking, as I’m noticing now that I have one in school. Those first 5 are halcyon days, glowing with such wonder, fabulous flowers on a plant you always found ugly. I eagerly sold the high chair, the crib, gave away 99.5% of the baby clothes. I welcomed, with open arms, toddlers, preschoolers, and now, children.

So universe, why now huh? Why burden me with a hunger I can never satiate? Why fill me up with this longing, for another child to grow in my belly, another gasp at the quickening, the terror of crowning and the quietude of 4am? Why bestow this gift on me now, after all this time, when its unnecessary, and more than a little inappropriate?

I stared hard at that little girl’s eyes, smiling wistfully, looking a little high I imagined. I could feel that baby skin on my fingertips, the porcelain of it, the chubby fingers grasping on their own, without measure or wit. I could imagine her weight on my hip, the little sighs she’d make while feeding, her tiny thumb, barely clinging to her lips as she slept.

In her eyes I imagined enjoying the babyhood’s of my daughters more completely, sanely.

Wanting a child is merely my wish for wanting to be normal.

Having Rosalyn so soon after Vivian stole that from me. And I can breathe now, and see that, see that for Vivian, I was scared, and worried and full of far too much book learning but I loved her and my world ran around her. But pregnancy, and a new child later and I was full of venom and hate without much room for love or empathy, not at first.

I crave a do-over. I want to be able to love a child the way Ros deserved to be loved, almost 4 years ago now. I can’t make it up, but on some level, my ovaries are trying to have the great chess game, to make up, to make due.

I’ve known, for years, that there’s no going back. What was, is, and simply, I cannot change or make that up. I can only move forward now, grasp my daughter tightly as she grins and tells me I’m pretty, as her cheekbones light up, exactly as mine do. What I can do it love the baby that was, the girl that is, the woman that will be.

The pinpoints of light in that baby girl’s face, interrupted only by the hesitation of the bus on a busy street, will forever hold me in thrall. I can face that hunger down, hold the door open, ask it to leave. And accept that finally, I have been allowed a feeling so basic to women, a hunger I never dreamed I’d feel. All of this shakes me from reverie, telling me to move on, move past and beyond.

I can love that phantom child, he, or she that will never be. I can love a ghost that never was.

In the air, this sweet break from the cold, rivulets down the road with winter dissolving, floats forever ago, a place disappeared, a land where the nights were long, crisp journey’s into another world, where time lasted and spun it’s magic around my ears. This air, reminds me of the warmth in our kitchen, the images of my mother’s hands across my back, on my head, in the sink, dishes clanging as I sat, underfoot, studying the patterns there. This air, it marries us across the years, the me then, the me now, handfasted, tied with thread and IV lines.

This air, it burns my eyes.

Taking advantage of a state of hypomania lasting more than 30 minutes (and explaining away my need for sleeping pills last night) I rip apart the bedroom, old clothes sorted out into a garbage bag, magazines on to the porch, to give away, to save for that day all trash is allowed, anything, maybe even the monkey’s on your back. I shift the bookshelves, notice the “unread” pile has grown to 20 or more books, smile. See my lonely photo album, the only evidence that I had a childhood, somehow tucked under the cat’s sofa, ragged and old.

Rosalyn, who has been “helping me” by laying on the futon and rolling around with Bride Barbie, sees the album and is drawn, as all children seem to be, by these frozen moments trapped. 

“That’s me!” she screams at the baby pictures. I find myself correcting her, but not really, so entwined we seem, so much the same, the air between us thin and enraptured, time meaningless. She sees me in full ballet regalia, the hated tutu, the flower hat my mother made that I wasn’t allowed to wear in the recital.

“I want to look like that Mummy.” she mutters, staring intently, eyes boring through the photo. Her grandmother deserved this child, she who loves pink and Barbie and babies and ballet, everything my mother wanted and wished for in a daughter, none of which she got. My mother deserved this granddaughter, who would have made her so proud, so happy, so fulfilled in all the ways I never could. Rosalyn deserved my mother, deserves her still, to embrace her in the ways I cannot, and possibly never should.

I turn, find the one lonely shot of my mother and I, the only picture I have of her holding me, the only one where she’s smiling, where her face isn’t forced for the camera’s or fighting back the pain I know she suffered. She’s gorgeous-my mother was beautiful and I try to show Rosalyn, try to make her understand how lovely and perfect my mother was when I was her age, how I must have crowed “You’re the bestest mumy EVER!” to her in the mornings but I just can’t find the words, all gummed up like marshmallows in my throat and it won’t make any sense, not now.

Possibly not ever. How do you explain an absence to someone who’s never felt it? What’s the point is deciphering that which will never be?

My mother was who she was, and all the things she wasn’t and never would be. She loved me. Maybe I only have one picture and it’s fading and cracking but she’s sitting as I sit now and holding me as I hold my girls and I know, without doubt, her heart glowed for me and shone in the darkness that were her last days.

She loved me. That I can tell Ros. That makes sense.

I point to another shot, curled up in that hideous chair from so long ago, pointed at the television. Shot taken while I was in the grip of the nightly news I imagine, legs pulled under, wearing only underpants, despite my hair being neatly pinned back.

“Ros, who is that?”

She knows it’s me, but waits, looking into my eyes.

“I hated them too, see? No pants. Hated pants.”

“Like me!” she sings, grinning.

“Like you Honey Bear. Just like you.”

The air shimmers, and I can taste the air in that room, liver and onions perhaps, my mother’s ribs, a Sunday dinner of hamburgers, chips and illicit soda. It’s warm and secure and snug around my shoulders like one of those granny square afghans you find in the thrift stores now and again, the work wasted on the receiver, or maybe dead. We’re there together, Ros and I, but it’s her little legs on that chair, my hands holding the warm milky tea and buffing my nails before bed. We’ve merged and danced into each other, my childhood, my memories becoming hers, settling in to a quiet corner where in 10 or 20 years she’ll find herself telling a story about a little girl in a room full of amber light and love and they’ll never be able to tell what’s mine and what’s hers or where it’s all gone.

They’ll never know for sure.

It breaks my heart to never know my mother. I’ll stare at her eyes in photographs, thinking I’ll know the secret if I look at her long enough, that somehow, I’ll absorb enough of her to really know my mother, for her to mean something more than the sum of her loss.

But you can’t know the dead. You can’t know the people they were-you can only wave to the people you want them to be, the people you think they were once, before everything happened. I can stare at her face, the before face, the one before the chemo and the radiation and the pain, the pain of knowledge, the pain of leaving, the pain of facing your life ending, a plane crashing into so many lives. I can’t know that. I’ll never know that in the ways that kept her up at night or guarded her eyes as the days grew closer.

I will never know my mother. She will be that perfect garden in a picture, all beauty and tragedy, curves and angles, youth and hope. She will be annectodal memories for my daughters, the one we cannot hurt, the one who lives forever in our hearts and fingertips and the glittering spring leaves in the broad maple behind the house.

The one that got away.

She was happy once, that I can convince myself of, even when I stare at a face yellowed by treatment, frightened by what might come, and yet absolutely resolute in her ability to ignore what will be. Hope via ignorance. How very catholic of her.

She was happy once. God fucking dammit, she was happy, and alive and beautiful and she was my mother. Sometimes the air arches back and around, like today, and I imagine her, young, like I am, newly blessed with children, just breathing in the air, glad to be alive, remembering when she was young, and all the stories she’d some day tell.

She was happy there.

“mmmhmm.” I’m in a hurry, ran home from one appointment, grabbed the kid from school, dragging her home so I can dart out the door again. Stupid rules not allowing her to take the bus when she can’t walk home by herself alone anyway.

“Yeah, when there’s a mouse, the elephant jumps up in the air it’s so scared.”

I stop, causing Vivian to stop, her mittened hand tucked into mine.

“Dude, the only thing an elephant is scared of is likely human. And carrying a gun. Do you know what people do to elephants for their tusks? They cut them off and then leave them. Trust me, a mouse is the least of their problems.”

We walk a little further, and sure mutters “But they said that elephants are scared…”

I stop again, and bend down to talk to her, not at her.

“Viv, logically, rationally, think about this. How big is an elephant?”

“HUGE!” she crows

“Yes. And how big is a mouse?”

“Really really little?” she offers

“So, knowing this, does it make any sense that a creature as wonderful and large as an elephant would be frightened by a mouse?”

She pauses, looks off down the road. Then the glimmer starts.

“No Mommy. That doesn’t make any sense at all.”

“Question Vivian. Question what they tell you. You’d be surprised what you learn.”

But now of course, she senses the “mom-lecture” coming, and stops listening.

**********************

I love that we’re raising the girls without religion. I love that they will be raised without the spectre of blind belief, without being taught to never question the things which matter most, to just accept the fantastic claims we make as a society about gods and heavens and afterlife’s. I love that instead of me saying “No, cause god says so!” I have to explain why and how and when, and the words “just cause” rarely exit my lips.

The urge to run with the elephant myth, or to say the moon was saying good night this morning instead of explaining orbit and the tilting of the earth’s axis is strong. It IS easier to run with the prevalent myth, to run with the man in the sky, guiding your life. It’s easier to make magic instead of science. Or so it seems.

I made a decision awhile ago that while I love magic, and all the magical things our world presents to us, I love truth even more. I love the magic in the real world-in how a plant grows, drawing it’s power from our star, the sun. I love explaining the wonderful way that one thing can be many things, and a metaphor for life-water as liquid, snow, ice, vapour. I love watching the magic appear in my children when they watch spiders hatch and run a myriad of ways across our deck, and know that the world has given them this, and it’s sweet.

I believe in the world around me, and by extension, my daughters. I believe that giving them the tools to question the myths they’re given, to really stop and examine if the easter bunny makes any sense whatsoever helps them become smarter, braver women. I knew growing up that most of those characters couldn’t possibly exist. But I loved them the same, for what they meant. I don’t want my daughters sitting idle, accepting what they are told as law, or as a given. I want the questions to be asked.

My mother, raising me under the cloak of  a Roman Catholic god, never accepted this. Her world brooked no questions, not for the important things, as when I’d express my disbelief in a magical place where everyone sat around and revelled in how awesome they were on earth. This wasn’t something said, and I took a long time to finally have the courage to speak my disbelief out loud, into the air where it was made real.

I have found the world around me, the substantial stuff we walk and breathe in, to be more magical and inspiring than any doctrine or book could be. The truths that we link to, the absolutes that settle in our chests and tell us that no, there’s no way that elephant could ever be afraid of something so minuscule-those are awesome because they are ours. They awe us because they start with us, our minds.

I don’t want my daughters to every forget how powerful and magical they themselves truly are.

The theologist and philosopher humor strips hit been enjoyed by hundreds of thousands of fans throughout the world. The strips feature the diverting adventures of a sextet your older pupil and a pet Tiger, which is actually a stuffed animal. The strips feature achievement rides and trips to the beach as substantially as hundreds of comical jokes that are played on every characters featured in the strips. Most of the strips feature meet theologist and Hobbes; however, there are a sort of strips that feature another characters much as Calvin’s parents and Susie Derkins, digit of Calvin’s classmates, Moe, a ballyrag at Calvin’s school, Miss Wormwood, Calvin’s teacher, as substantially as Rosalyn, Calvin’s babysitter. For the most conception the strips are realistic; however, there are a whatever humor strips which feature the activate of theologist and philosopher into outmost expanse and backwards to past times. The theologist and philosopher humor is digit of the most famous in the concern and has delighted hundreds of thousands of readers.

Calvin and Hobbes: The Characters

As the denomination suggests, the theologist and philosopher humor field features digit important characters, theologist and Hobbes. theologist is a teen sextet assemblage older creative and peculiar pupil who quite often, crapper be a taste selfish. The news info his adventures with his pet tiger, famous as Hobbes. (In reality, philosopher is meet a stuffed birdlike which resembles a tiger). philosopher is a more answerable and logical amount in the cartoon; however, he goes along with every of Calvin’s troublemaking schemes and plots. philosopher crapper prizewinning be described as Calvin’s sidekick in every the adventures presented in the humor strip.

Although the magnitude of the strips circulate around theologist and Hobbes, Calvin’s parents, teacher, babysitter, as substantially as a acquaintance and the collection ballyrag are every inform in whatever scenes. Calvin’s parents are unnamed and referred to exclusive as “Mom” and “Dad”. They resemble the exemplary dweller parent, allowing theologist to ingest his creativity and endeavor with Hobbes, patch ease expressing concerns of the country of their son as substantially as disagreeable to inform him domain and the grandness of performing substantially in school. Calvin’s Teacher is famous as Miss. Wormwood and is Calvin’s prototypal evaluate pedagogue in every funny strip. She is older and demanding and is a onerous carriage meet inactivity to retire. Calvin’s babysitter, famous as Rosalyn, is the exclusive child biddy who puts up with Calvin’s bad activity and thusly uses the sorrow of having to care with these antics as justification for raises in pay. Susie Derkins is digit of Calvin’s prototypal evaluate classmates and a near neighbour. She is a rattling nimble woman who gets amend grades. theologist and Susie are tralatitious prototypal evaluate boy-girl enemies and theologist plays some applicatory jokes on Susie. Underneath this relationship, it is suspected that theologist haw hit a modify on Susie. Finally, the terminal case which is presented in this funny field is Moe, the collection ballyrag who is ofttimes regarded as the exclusive prototypal grader who has to shave. He is the tralatitious edifice ballyrag attractive Calvin’s money and lunches and constantly shoving him and descending his books.

Find more aggregation at http://www.calvinandhobbes.co.uk

“Mummy, it huwts. My tummy.”

Her tiny hand rests on her belly, almost like mine did, years past, cradling the heaviness of her head in the last months of utter safety. I remember her there, taut, like a spring, ready yet patient.

Heavy.

She looks up at me, the sleep tattooed to her lips. I know this feeling-the drawn pain in your bones, the disconcerting ache in the pit of your stomach, the helplessness of a body that’s decided last night’s ham and swiss isn’t your friend.

I remember, and know, but for her, for her 3, almost 4 body, it’s new, raw, and she’s terrified by the force inside.

She sits with me, her warm ball of muscle and obstinate will leaning into me, merged with me, silk from the top of her hair fluttering in my nose as I brush my lips, minute to minute, against her forehead.

“Hummingbirds. I want the hear the Hummingbuwrds.” The Boston Burr on her tongue still hasn’t left, and it flicks my heart each time.

She helps, placing the CD gently inside, waiting for the sounds she’s grown to love. She presses back against me, heating my skin, causing my own jellied insides to stir.

We sit inside this moment, perfect, like crystal figures. Her sister understands this flu, the need to clamber among me that Rosalyn has today.

Later, I’ll let her sit up with me, watching Firefly. I’ll watch her methodically stack the videos, moving them off the floor, nothing like the daughter who the night before, coughed and let loose the dogs of her stomach, all over me, my bed, the blankets. The daughter who stood up panic stricken, crying “change my sheets!” until I reminded her that they were my sheets, and it was perfectly, utterly, all right.

Later I’ll be happy for the battle of hugs and kisses at bed time, because it means she’s better, and my heart can let go of that autolurch it does, the kick of worry that even a simple case of the flu can bring. That constant fear, that something, anything might take her away from me.

Her cheek is smooth against mine when I give her that last buggie-rug and hug on her lip, cooling now, not so fired, clay cooled. I hold her hand in mine for a moment, marvel at how they’re just like mine.

Yes, that is a plastic stomach.

Santa, being a dutiful and women friendly fairy tale, remembered to bring Vivian something science related. He brought her “Sick Stomach“. Why yes, that means exactly what you think. I get to make pretend vomit with my kid. She’s pestered me all day long to do it, and I’ve been able to put her off because we need things to make it, like digestive cookies. Yes, I do see the irony on that one.

After all the candy and cookies and sheer crap that I’ve had, I couldn’t stomach making barf.

The sheer awesomeness of having a science obsessed daughter is my gift.

I, aside from my tattoo, got an Aerogrow. The bets are on for how long it takes for me to kill everything. It’s pretty cool, and also functions as a pretty damn good reading lamp.

Small Christmas, but good Christmas. Pooper Scooper Barbie was well received (poop already lost), T-Rex Playmobil caused squeeing, everyone happy, and gaining weight from the sheer amount of crap gifted to us. If I never see another gummy lifesaver again, it will be too soon.

Now if you don’t mind me, I have a bottle of white wine to finish off.

I repeat this mantra almost daily.

Her older sister is, for the most part, intelligent, sweet natured, helpful-only a little attitude thrown in. (and that’s mostly just lately.) Vivian listens, she stays in bed, rarely needs extra attention. She’s the easy one.

Rosalyn makes me want to eat my shoes on a regular basis.

When things were stressful in August, she started crawling into bed with me, which, all things considered, I didn’t deter. I figured she needed the extra attention because she’s more sensitive. Flash forward to now, a few months later, when everything is stable and normal again, and she’s STILL doing it. 3-4 times a night.

Out of no where I’ll hear “I need a hug and a buggy rug!” and since no one BUT Mom will do, I have to stumble out of bed, and return her.

Threats don’t help. Taking things away-escalates the screaming. Ignoring her-to begin with, I have trouble ignoring her (hello residual guilt of the post partum period!) and secondly, the girl can scream. Loudly, and forever. No one would get any sleep at all.

Problem is-currently I’m not getting any sleep and I feel like a zombie. I know that today I’m coming down with the cold I’ve been avoiding but sheer luck and eating ok, but I’m weak and it’s exploiting that.

I’m frustrated. I do not know how to stop this. She’s still in a toddler bed, and I’m wondering if maybe the bed is too small? It’s not a peeing issue-she’s finally down with all that. It’s not nightmares or terrors because she’s not upset at anything, not crying, she just wants me. And as flattering as that is, I’m exhausted. We can’t watch a TV show anymore without a visit.

I’m trying to just take her right back to bed, tuck her in and leave. But it doesn’t seem to work, and I’m freaking tired. She won’t let anyone in the house help her-she’ll go into hysterics instead, which is TONS of fun at 3am.

What am I doing wrong? She’s a very sensitive kid-she won’t wear anything with buttons, whips her PJ’s off a lot of the time-which is why I’m wondering about the bed size. But I also have a LARGE suspicion that she’s just playing me.

At the same time, she’s not even 4 year, and I don’t want her to be scared.

HELP!

I took Rosalyn to her 3.5 year assessment yesterday, and I will say going in that I had some concerns. Her speech, while drastically better than it was, is still many times garbled and incomprehensible. Even without comparing her to her silver tongued sister, she’s had to understand in that Boomhauer sorta way. She seems to not hear us a lot, but whether or not that’s a selective hearing it’s hard to tell.

And her eyes. Both myself and her father wear glasses. I’m significantly more blind than he is, being unable to see near or far. So while Vivian has better than 20/20 vision, I’m afraid that Rosalyn has inherited some issues, namely nearsightedness, since to really look at something, she has to hold it about 1 inch from her nose, and then goes nearly crosseyed to see it.

So we do the tests. The hearing one? Shit, I found the headphones tight, and Rosalyn cannot abide anything tight on her, so we don’t know if she missed the frequencies, or if she just couldn’t hear them considering the headphone placement. The eye test? Wouldn’t sit still for most, but missed most of the depth perception test. I picked up the book however, and would have also missed most of them.

The tester also felt as I did about her speech, that at this point she should be closer to people outside the family understanding her.  I felt relieved in a way, to know I wasn’t hearing things.

The bigger problem is that when Rosalyn doesn’t want to do something, she just won’t do it, period. And I think that influenced the tests today. Where he sister is eager and happy to please, she’s her mother’s daughter, and doesn’t give a shit if she can’t see what’s in it for her. So i’m afraid her abilities and senses will be judged based on her will-scary indeed.

I’m not afraid something is wrong. I know she’ll likely need glasses, and possibly a little speech therapy in the worst case scenario. I’m more concerned with fixing any issues.

It’s the wondering-after the first one comes out so advanced in some things, without a problem, how does the second one, the one that I seemingly did everything right with, have so many potential struggles?

We won’t even get into the hair raising hissy fits….

She will be fine. I just wish there were easier answers, or that it was ok to just step back and accept what will be.

pours through our windows like water

your eyes to slits, you ask for sunglasses

I remind you the warm room is filled with

instances free of light.

Between the two of you

battles, Spartans, Celts, Afghans

wage on, small things

that crayon, that page

the very existence of a sister

you scream until your voices

hoarse

drive me to fond memories of

drunken nights under stars, my

head spinning, casual smile

plastered across me as

my hand would reach for someone else.

The chaos in my head then

was so much simpler now.

Pink. You all wear pink.

Small sister, beggar sister

shining eyes at older

desperate, wanting.

The light doesn’t dazzle you

doesn’t stall you,

screeching fishwife of a child.

Your universe starts, ends

at your stubby footprint.

Brown eyes on pink. Brown eyes

wide eyed at me, towards me

full of me, eating of me

asking for my past

my memory, things shared for meaning

then forgotten.

Wide eyes in the afternoon

clarity of a season ending.

I stand outside my daughter’s room, fists clenched, anger holding tears hostage my voice raw and torn from the yelling, the yelling at a preschooler yelling

“Like this! I wanna hug like this!” (imagine if a hug is a kiss and the “this” is some obscure squeezing of the cheeks together)

While no matter how I do it, it’s not right, it’s not good enough and in my mind I see 4 years ago or so and a decision made not to drive to a certain clinic and I see a child born and a mother not caring rejecting that child and now that little girl, she does whatever she can to hold my attention, however bad and I can’t help but turn away in frustration and sometimes, like tonight, realize that I can fully grasp how some parents can seriously harm their children in anger, frustration and sheer agonizing tiredness, that mental weight that just never lets up.

Days like today I wonder how I let myself get here, how I deluded myself into being happy with motherhood, with being a parent. How anyone decided that I should be allowed to raise a child. Days like today I look around at everything, at the job that I seem to be letting through my fingers, at the life I seemed to have squandered and I discover that if I did indeed believe in a god, I’d be MIGHTY pissed off right now.

Days like today I’m ashamed to think of my daughters fearing my, of my oldest crying because I’ve said I wanted the other one dead, words flying from my mouth before I could reign them in, visions of 10 years from now, the guilt payments I’ll make, the quiet whisper of a thought that she’ll know I never really wanted her anyway.

I’ve said it, a few times, in writing. Never to her. Hopefully never to her. But it’s true, and maybe I’ll erase this post sometime later, but it’s true that she was not wanted and sometimes I wonder if we didn’t make a huge mistake, if I should have gotten on that bus anyway. Other days I love her and I’m fascinated by her, this girlchild with my legs and unruly hair, her Kathleen Turner voice and chocolate eyes she can draw me.

And perhaps there is some sick irony in my rejection of the child who is so very me.

So today I wonder how I got here, and why I got here. I am here, solidly here, but after having my nail job ruined for the umpteenth time by children, I wonder why I didn’t do more to slow down the getting here.

(and no, I am not actually going to sell or hurt my daughter…geez, give me SOME credit won’t ya?)

Elisabeth at You Can’t Call It It is a big fan of Rose as a first name, à la the fictional daughter of Charlotte York Goldenblatt of Sex and the City fame.  We agree that it’s that rare choice that manages to be both feminine and strong, while coming in at merely one simple syllable.  But rather than just make Rose a Name of the Day, we thought we’d do one better and explore the garden of Rose names for girls that would look just right in the driver’s seat.

There are easily two dozen Rose names – far less than in botany, where over 100 species are found.  But it’s enough that they range from the classic to the dated to the newly fashionable and potentially appealing. 

• Rose:  She’s the timeless original.  Like Mary, Jane, Anne or Grace, Rose’s style stems from her effortless and timeless simplicity.  The name is feminine without being even a smidge frilly.  Rose could be a ballerina, a district attorney or the little girl next door.  The name ranked #351 in 2007.
• Rosa: She’s the Latina version of the classic.  Picture the same little girl, but somewhere in the Spanish-speaking world, which does not exclude the US.  While Rosa has been quite fashionable in the US, she’s never eclipsed her single-syllable cousin.  Today we think Rose is the stronger option unless, of course, your first language is Spanish, Italian or Portuguese.  As of 2007, she ranked #435 in the US.
• Róisín:  Pronounced ro SHEEN, this is the Celtic version of the name.  Technically, it means “little rose.”  Róis – rosh - is the literal translation for the flower.  Once an immigrant would’ve abandoned this name in favor of Rose minutes after arriving in the US; today, it’s likely to be bestowed by parents who’ve never seen the Emerald Isle but are longing for a heritage choice.  She’s Niamh and Saoirse’s sister. Despite her authenticity, the “een” ending brings to mind Arlene, Darlene and Maureen – names less than fashionable today.  It has ever charted in the Top 1000.
• Rosemary: She’s a double flower power hit – there’s not only the bloom, but the herb, too.  As Ophelia memorably told us, Rosemary is for remembrance.  The short form Romy comes from the Germans, and is occasionally bestowed as a given name.  This is our personal favorite, thanks to the haunting Interpol song from 2005.  (Yes, their Rosemary references the twisted serial killer Rosemary West.  We choose to overlook that tiny hiccup.)  As of 2007, Rosemary ranked #720.
• Rosalind:  Even more of a throwback than Rosemary, Rosalind was used by Shakespeare for a character in As You Like It, as well as Romeo’s love interest before he’s met his Juliet.  We like it for offering the nickname option Lindy, as well as serving as a graceful way to honor women named Rose and Linda – statistics suggest that many of us have both names hanging on our family trees.  It’s tempting to translate Rosalind as “beautiful rose,” but in fact there’s no botanical basis for this name.  It’s from Germanic elements for horse – hros and soft – linde – meaning that the name suggests a biddable horse.  Let’s not on dwell on that, as we rather like the name.  Rosalind was not in the Top 1000 as of last year.
• Rosanna:  Just as she appears, Rosanna is a mash-up of Rose and Anna, and was a smash hit song for Toto back in 1982.  While the names aren’t related, we rather like the idea of getting the nickname Roxy from Rosanna.  As of 2007, she was not in the Top 1000.
• Roseanne, Rosemarie:  While Rosanna feels current with choices like Isabella and Anneliese, we can’t help but find these two compound names a bit dated.  Neither charted in the Top 1000 last year.
• Rosalynn, Rosalyn, Roslyn, Roseline, Roselyn:  Another compound name that seems dusty and fusty circa 2008, regardless of spelling.  That said, current creations like Kaitlyn, Madalyn and Gracelyn are encouraging parents to consider these Rose-variants.  It’s truly unthinkable if you live in metro DC, where Rosslyn, Virginia is just across the Key Bridge from Georgetown and accessible via the orange line.  None of these choices appear in the US Top 1000.
• Rosalba: Used mainly in Italian, this one means “white rose.”  It has the romantic feel of Arabella, but perhaps a bit more strength and substance.  It has never ranked in the US Top 1000.
• Rosario, Rosaria:  The term “rosary” literally translates to rose garden, but refers to a Catholic devotional prayer practice counted out on beads.  Rosario is feminine in Spanish and masculine in Italian; Rosaria is the Italian feminine.  Despite the success of actress Rosario Dawson and the lively sound of this name, neither version has recently charted in the US Top 1000.
• Rosary:  It’s unthinkable to many, but with names like Trinity and Genesis gaining, we can’t rule out the possibility that some parents might choose this overtly religious moniker for a daughter.  But it does raise the question of what they’d call their son – Incense?  Mercifully, Rosary has never charted in the US Top 1000.
• Rosetta:  This is an Italian pet form of Rose, most famous as the Rosetta Stone – the ancient steele that provided the key to reading Egyptian hieroglyphics.  It was discovered in 1799 by the French, who had conquered Egypt under Napoleon the year before.  The port city was called Rashid, but the French referred to it as Rosetta – and so this name sounds not only dated, but carbon-dated.  It has not ranked in the US Top 1000 since 1973.
• Rosina, Rosena, Rosella, Roselle, Rosalita:  Like Rosetta, these are pet forms of Rose and Rosa, sometimes bestowed independently.  We don’t think they’re as compelling as some of the other choices, but some might favor them for family or personal reasons.  For example, Rosina appears in the Rossini opera The Barber of Seville.  The song Rosalita was a 1973 hit for Bruce Springsteen.
• Rosalie, Rosalia:  Rosalia was an ancient festival, celebrated into the year 500, and probably for many centuries prior.  Rosalia entered common use and was the name of a 12th century Sicilian saint.  Today we think Rosalia might be a bit much, but the French adaptation of the name – Rosalie – feels fresh and current.
• Rosabel, Rosabelle, Rosabella:  Yet another mash-up, this time used in Italian and Spanish, as well as English.  It’s a relatively new name, dating to the 18th century.  Given the popularity of Isabella and Annabel, we can imagine meeting some small Rosabels, too.  But at the moment, all three variants are unranked in the US.
• Rosamond, Rosamund:  In use since at least the 12th century, and probably a few hundred years prior, this name has more in common with the equestrian-tinged Rosalind than the botanical Roses.  Still, it’s tempting to translate this as “rose of the world” – in fact, the 12th century mistress of England’s King Henry II was named Rosamund Clifford and nicknamed precisely that.  These Roses last appeared in the US Top 1000 in the 1930s, making them true throwbacks.  You might even up the quirk factor by calling your Rosamond by the nickname Monday.
• Primrose:  Yes, it’s a valid botanical choice.  But it’s terribly, well, prim and prissy for a real live girl. Priscilla ranks #375, but Primrose has never charted in the US Top 1000.
• Anna Rose, Mary Rose:  These have been popular through the ages, but are likely recorded in official records as Anna and Mary.  Today, we think Rosanna and Rosemary are stronger choices, but these might appeal to some parents.

There you have it – more than a dozen reasons to rescue Rose from the middle spot and promote her to first.

They grow up.

I stare at my daughters in turn, fruit of my womb, sharers of specks of stardust and I wonder for them. Will the find a moon, or just a lover? Will they strive for the best, or be quietly happy with a simple life?

I’ve decided I don’t much care.

Vivian is 5 in less than a month. She starts school in less than 2. My baby, my firstborn, my motormouth, starts her new life soon, her new life detaching from me. I’m ok with it, I really am, I just feel like we should be marking this occasion, this transition from home. We have so few traditions to mark these changes. Her legs seem to stretch for miles, and her eyes are constantly lost in thought, staring above me at the sky.

I love my daughters, even my feisty second born who refuses pants and underwear at home, who will stand her ground and demand what she wants, even if it’s something as asinine as a blue cup.

My daughters, be always this brave, this fearless and hopeful. Be always this curious, no matter what they say. Be always this strong, even when they say you aren’t. Tell yourselves you deserve what you can get, and it will be so.

I want so much for you, that sometimes staying in the relative safety of my arms feels like the better answer. But I know it’s the wrong one.

Like Micheal Ondaatje says, I’ll break my arms for you, hold your secrets forever.

(p.s.-drunk posting NOT COOL)