March 17, 2010
I'm not sure why it's so important to us, but Jared and I have tried to give our kids names that have a little bit of meaning.
Maggie, for example, is named after the Magalloway River--Jared's favorite place to catch trout. Her middle name is Elizabeth, since we got married at Elizabeth Park near my childhood home in Connecticut. And her last name is Lawson--a name that's been passed down the line by a bunch of white guys I've never met.
James's middle name is Camden. Camden is a beautiful little town in Maine, and also happens to be the first place I ever made out with Jared. Not the place where we fell in love mind you, but the place where Jared turned to me and said, "I know that I'm moving out West and this relationship will never go anywhere, but would you mind if I kissed you?"
I was swallowing his head before I even had the wherewithal to answer.
So that's his middle name. And his first name? Well that's after my Irish grandfather, Jimmy Smedick. Technically speaking, James is 12.5%, or 1/8th Irish. Technically speaking, I'm 1/8th stupid, since I forgot to dress James in a single speck of green clothing on this great St. Patrick's day.
He did wipe some snot on his cheek this morning during breakfast. Does that count?
Jared called me from the school parking lot, pointing out the fact that kids were pouring off the bus wearing shamrock shaped diddly-boppers, pot o' gold tattoos on their cheeks, and green clothing from head to toe. James on the other hand, was wearing a t-shirt from Bike Week in Daytona Beach--with a nice graphic of an eagle riding a Harley.
I did manage to scrounge up a package of green jello, and put a few drops of green food coloring in the upstairs toilet to make it look like a drunk leprechaun stopped by to take a whiz. All I can do is cross my fingers and hope for redemption.
Sorry, Grandpa Jim.