A Gathering of Old Men

When people criticized us for spelling Marcel’s name in the masculine form, I joked that I would’ve called her “Jack” if I could’ve gotten away with it.  A truer statement is that I would’ve called her “Seymour”.

Marcel, like all babies, came out looking like an old man.  More specifically, she had short hair and was wrinkly.  In addition to all that, her hair was jet black and with loose curls and her face came to a point at the nose.  I couldn’t shake the notion that she looked so much like those huddled masses that paraded through Ellis Island in the early part of the last century.  So I jokingly called her “Seymour”, which was most popular during the years between WWI and the Great Depression.

Tristan, in her own way, also inspired an old man’s name.  Her short, loose curls where golden and her face was perfectly round.  Her head was huge, however, and her bottom lip is so full that it often droops.   Sometimes, when her mouth is open and she gives you that blank baby stare that you don’t think there’s a thought in her head.  At those moments, she looks like a “Gus” to me.  That name was last big during the Industrial Revolution, so it’s old enough for her, too.

 

Changes Abound!

My wife is pregnant!

I’m really looking forward to getting Marcel involved because she’s great with kids. She simply adores her cousins. And she inherently understands that she has to be more gentle with the younger ones. That, however, doesn’t stop her from bossing everybody around. So I know the baby will get a lot of nurturing guidance from Big Sister Marcel. Marcel is going to be a great asset when raising the newest one.

It’s been hard, however, getting her to understand what’s happening. Telling her that mommy has a baby in her tummy just doesn’t register, yet. When we told her that on Halloween, the little dragon said, “No! Daddy’s the baby!”

I can’t wait to take her to the sonogram, though. We’ll be taking her to the second one when the baby’s picture will look more like a person and less like a kidney bean. I’m hopeful that the video and sound of the heartbeat will make it apparent to her what is going on. But, then again, maybe all that won’t be necessary. Maybe it will only take a swelling belly to peak her interest.

What I absolutely need is for her to weigh in on my side regarding baby naming, because I haven’t been very successful in that regard. You see, Marcel has been a great arbiter of family decisions. The first time we employed her deft judgment was when it came time to furnish her room.

My wife wanted an area rug. Moreover, she wanted something new, rather than a hand-me-down. Fine. But this new thing had to be plain and monochromatic. In contrast, I felt that if we were going to get something new, then we should get the perfect thing and the perfect rug for my newborn daughter’s room would be alive with colors and patterns. It would be, in short, fun! So, when it came time to pick from the selection my wife presented, there was big gap in our first choices.

I suggested we show pictures of the choices to Marcel and let her decide. My wife, anticipating that a newborn would hardly react, at all, easily agreed to that suggestion. And for all of my wife’s choices, she was absolutely correct. Marcel just blankly stared. However, when Marcel saw a picture of my favorite choice, which was awash with swirls of yellows, sky blues, navy blues, and whites, she went crazy! Her eyes went wide, her head shook and her arms waved, wildly. Marcel clearly loved what I loved and I loved every minute of that!

Alas, we still got stuck with my wife’s favorite choice.

But this is my blog and I don’t have to consult with anyone about the changes we’ll make here. And so we’re going to change the name. We’re no longer “It should’ve been California: The history of my life in my daughter’s world”. From now on, we’re “It should’ve been California: The history of my life in my children’s world”. And we’re thrilled with what daddy has decided.

 

Welcome to my blog about Marcel!

Marcel was born just over two years ago at the end of May.

After months and months of fighting over what her name would be, and after seeing her for the first time and realizing that she looked just like me and my family–and hardly like my wife or her family, at all–I let my wife pick her name. The wife might as well have something, right?

She picked the name “Marcel.”

I had hoped that we’d name her after my mother. I’m named after my dad. As a child, that I had gotten the name of the biggest, baddest dude in my life was always a source of strength for me. I wanted my daughter to have the benefit of that strength.

To get that strength, I would’ve also added my mother-in-law’s name or my wife’s name or my father-in-law’s last name. Moreover, whichever of those names that we chose could’ve been the first or middle name, I didn’t care, just so my daughter also got her grandmother’s name.

My wife, however, rejected all of that. She felt that family names cheat children out of their own identity and, more importantly, she felt that nine months of pregnancy entitled her to this opportunity to shop for a name. So we settled on Marcel Simone.

Don’t get me wrong. Marcel is a great name. (It’s the French version of “Marshall,” which means “warrior,” and is the masculine version of the French version of “Marshall”, which means “warrior”, because my daughter can have anything that a man can have.) And it fits her. She’s strong and exotic, just like “Marcel” sounds.

But she’s more than just strong and exotic and gorgeous and smart and fearless and charming and flirtatious and serious and determined. She’s also a hoot. Check out the picture. In this regard, the name “California”–where her mother and I met–would have been perfect cause anyone named after that populous state with lots of personalities would be just like my daughter.