Leezer

My Mom’s high school principal’s name was Harry Dick.  Or Harry Balls, I can’t recall, but she reminds of this fact once a year or so.   Her point, aside from the obvious entertainment-value in the name itself, is of the importance in bringing a child into this world with a name that does its owner justice. 

We named our first daughter Georgia for a couple of reasons; first, my husband and I love the Ray Charles song, Georgia On My Mind.   The song is soulful and a bit mysterious - you don’t know if Georgia is a person or a place.  It doesn’t really matter.  Hearing the song always made me wish my name was Georgia. 

 Second, my husband  is from Virginia, and we sure as hell weren’t going to name our child Virginia.  (I once related this rationale to a stranger at a dinner party, only later to lean over with an outstretched hand, “by the way, my name is Lisa.  What’s your name?”  Her response: “Virginia.”)  Giving our precious girl the name Virginia would undoubtedly require us to console her on a regular basis when other children realized how much Virginia sounds like vagina. 

Georgia - the name and my daughter -  reminds me of a Weeping Willow -  lacy, feminine, strong, steamy, and ageless.  Somehow I knew this about her before she was born.  That, or I’ve projected onto her those traits I value.  I think it was also the only name upon which we agreed.

I’ve longed to name a daughter India, which was a common name in Victorian England.  Perhaps because England occupied India.   Upon further reflection, a British person naming a child India may be considered tasteless, like naming a child Appartheid, Harper’s Ferry, or The Killing Fields.  Some good things likely came out of the British occupation of India, but placing my child in the position of needing to justify her name seemed a tad unfair.   Our baby sitter’s name is Enola.  A few days ago my husband asked her,

 ” . . . like the WWII Enola Gay?  The one that carried the bomb that was dropped on Hiroshima?” 

I was afraid he’d ask.  During this questioning I implored him with my eyes, She’s only fifteen!  She didn’t give herself the name!  Leave it alone!

Nonetheless, India, like Goergia, is a strong, steamy, yet ageless name.  

When we adopted Anna from China, the name India didn’t make the short list because the last thing we wanted to do to our child who doesn’t look a thing like us was to saddle her with an oddball name.  So we picked about the least ethnic-sounding name we could think of:  Anna.  It was the perfect choice.  She loves her name and refers to herself in the third person:  “Anna wants wa-wa; Anna go nigh-nigh; Anna go poopy!” 

Expat Princess believes - and I whole heartedly agree - that a name should look impressive when printed upon a college or law school diploma.  I question whether the Shittheads, the Shanias,  and the Fantasias really want their names printed Harvard Diplomas.  But perhaps the names won’t be printed anywhere at all, or will be printed upon state liquor control-board operators’ licenses.  Not that there’s any shame in that.  Don’t send me hate-mail telling me how bougoise I am.  I just think a child should be given as much of a head start as possible. 

Speaking of names that do their owners justice, I know a woman who named her son Justice, but I believe she spells it differently.  What a wonderful name, Justice.  Unless the child becomes an adult-film star.  In that case Harry Dick is more appropriate.

The things I love most about Anna:

• The way she smells;
• The way she falls over face-first like a dead soldier when she’s mad;
• The way she says “yeah,” (”jah”);
• The way she makes fists when she blows her nose;.
• The way she remembers exactly where you put whatever thing she’s not supposed to have and just how long she’ll have to wait until you’ve forgotten about said thing;
• The way she raises her eyebrows when she asks a question;
• The way she grabs my neck tight when I pick her up from daycare;
• The way she she has worked her way into our hearts as if she was always there.

This is a photo a friend of ours took of Anna.  (Thanks Rob.  You should be a professional photographer.  Seriously).  I love it because it is how she usually looks at us all the time - very open and honest.  She is about the cutest Asian kid I have ever seen.  And she is smart, of course.  I’m sure that she is well on her way to becoming an astronaut or a nuclear physicist.  I will disown her if she wastes that brain of hers on Gene Juarez Beauty School or Starbucks. 

She loves her Mom and Dad with reckless abandon.  (What kid doesn’t?  Is there any other kind of love a kid has?  It’s not as if they’re thinking “well, I’ve been left at the altar before, so I’m going to go into this relationship with my guard up.”  Sadly, perhaps some kids are like that.  But Anna’s not). 

 The only irritating thing about Anna - and I have to admit that it’s more endearing than irritating - is her habit of falling over face first like a wounded soldier whenever she is mad at us.    She speaks only about as much English as any other two and one-half year old.   She will have a conversation with herself - in gibberish - using her hands to express a point.  The other day she went on and on about something or another then threw her hands up in the air and laughed as if to say to herself, “you just can’t win.” 

My husband and I joke that of all the Chinese kids, we got the best one.