A Beast by any other Name...

So.....

There's been a bit of a buzz lately about our chosen nickname for the lil' one.  From more than a few individuals.  Their reactions range from the slightly annoyed to the extremely offended, but the general consensus is the choice terminology for our unborn child is quite the inappropriate one.

When the opinions of said individuals began to trickle in, I did what any other hormonally-charged impregnated female would do: I flipped out like a four-year old, threw myself on the bed and began to cry uncontrollably.  I hadn't even popped the kid out, and already felt like I had failed as a parent.  Feelings of inadequacy flooded in and I felt powerless to stop them; I was the straight-A student who had brought home a B, and disappointed them all.  Luckily, the Boy let this go on for about 2 minutes before he strolled in and put it a stop to it all by offering me some perspective, and a shin-kicking reality check. (Did I mention I love him madly and can't wait to marry him and have his babies? Oh,...right....)    


Despite popular belief (and personal aspirations,) I am not made of stone.  In fact, I'm an extremely sensitive individual; one of my worst flaws is that I care too much about what others think of me and my actions, and have been known to go to ridiculous lengths to avoid conflict and please everyone in the process.  That, in itself, isn't necessarily a bad attribute to have - BUT, when it is at the expense of my own happiness, my own wishes...well, my friends, that's when it becomes a bit different.

From the moment I first found out about the life growing inside me, I felt a connection to it.  The connection to what it was doing, how it was growing, how it was changing and changing me.  The first time I verbalized this connection to the Boy, the name just rolled out of my mouth. Without premeditation, or thought.  We were discuss dinner plans, or something similar, and I casually told him that the Beast demanded Mexican that night.  He stopped, and gave me a look, and we both started laughing.  Not just because it was unexpected or funny, but because it was so us.  It was as if it already understood what sort of family it was being born into.

We didn't choose "The Beast," the Beast chose for itself. 


Lots of expectant gals have their "beans" and their "bumps," and that's just fine.  But that's not who I am/who we three are. Does that mean that I'm any less excited about the little one?  That I acknowledge the miracle of its existence with any less love and adoration as the mothers who regard their unborn children with conventionally cuter monikers? Hell to the NO. And, by the way, if any of you happen to think otherwise you can do one of the following: a.) keep it to yourself. b.) let me know, and you and I will have a private discussion about the future of our friendship, or c.) don't read this blog :-)  I realize that this is just the beginning of the onslaught, and so I'd better get used to it.  Because once you're pregnant, everyone - and I mean everyone  - starts coming out of the woodwork to offer you a shit ton of unsolicited advice.  *And, on an related-but-unrelated-note, many thanks to those mommies who have offered sound advice (Sarah M. and Sara B!) that reaches beyond the cliches of others'!

So I'm steppin' off the pregnant lady pedestal, now.  'Cause, yes, my back hurts... but mainly, there's some Ben & Jerry's Oatmeal Cookie Chunk calling me from the freezer.

'Night, y'all.