Meticulous.
Effortless.
Systematical.
Scrupulous.
But in reality, it's nothing short of a mess.
The actions revolved around the mess of parenting only became more clear to me after reading "Covered Bridges" by Barbara Kingslover and "The Woman who Lost her Names" by Nessa Rapoport.
Reading "Covered Bridges" was almost like looking into my future. The married couple in the story were undeniably in love, content with their careers but terribly awkward in such a graceful manner.
It's mostly the graceful awkwardness that I identify with.
Lena: The girl with the perfect name and the imperfect bee allergy.
Christie: The girl with the bubbly, almost Christian name and the determined, adventurous outlook.
Such a contradiction only adds to mine and Lena's character and only adds to our air of bumbling. I kept this in mind while reading "The Woman who Lost her Names." Hearing the tale of a woman who struggled for the symbols of a name, for a title that fit. This ultimately got me thinking:
Does it really matter?
"What's in a name?" Romeo asked. And now I'm asking along with him.
I grew up practically my entire life hating and resenting my name: it had no back story, no family history, it was uncommon and everyone called me "Christine." Growing up, however, I began to appreciate the fact that a name truly doesn't matter.
"A name is a title, just like a book has," I remember my kindergarten teacher telling my class the first day of school as all of the Emilys and Michaels fought over who was the "best" Emily or the "coolest" Michael. "A title isn't the whole story, and neither is your name."
Her words stuck with me until this day. And even now, the bent and handled magnet she made for each child in class still hangs on my fridge back home:
It reminds me that nothing's methodical or effortless: parenting, naming and life in general. Everything is a graceful, awkward mess and no title can ever fully describe someone's individual and unique story: A MESS.
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