What’s In a Name
What’s in a name . . . it seems to be the most important topic of conversation lately. The thing is I really don’t understand what the fuss is all about. I didn’t know the origin of my name until I was much older. My parents never told me that my name meant noble or aristocratic, although it does suit my personality, one might say. Heck, James name origin means thief. Well, he does always steal the conversations. Show-off!
The most important thing to me is that I knew WHY my parents named me Mona. I was named after my grandfather’s sister who died quite young. When my grandfather had children, he named his first daughter Mona. My dad must have loved the name and his sister so much that when he had a daughter, the one and only (thankfully), he named her Mona. Despite knowing the origin of my name, I always felt special because my name had sentimental value to my parents.
We are naming our son, if God blesses us with one, Miles Lucas, not ONLY because of Miles Davis, who someone quite poignantly brought to our attention, beat his wife, but we are naming him Miles as a tribute to my father who’s “government name” is Milbert Lugay. That’s right! Milbert is Germanic and is a combination of gracious and good. That’s right. My dad is a “G” in the literal sense.
I digress, yet again.
We took the Mi from his name and came up with the name Miles and we took the Lu in my maiden name, my dad’s last name and came up with the name Lucas (Thanks mom and Alicia).
Miles means Soldier in Latin, but in Germanic it means Peaceful.
Lucas is a derivative of Luke, to appease all the Christians out there who gave half a (well, you know) about giving him a biblical name. You happy? Don’t say we haven’t done anything for you. It’s a joke . . . sort of.
So, there you have it. What’s in a name? Quite a bit if you ask me. But you know what? I better go purchase one of those home gender tests, so I can determine whether or not this baby is really a boy. Heard their pretty accurate. I’ll put that on my to-do list. Lord knows, I don’t want to be getting irritated over foolishness if there’s no boy in here. Y’all know how I can be. Then Nikki would be right. She can’t be right.
I’m going into my 13th week. My little peanut is now the size of a peach, if anyone cares to know. Soon his intestines will be moving from the umbilical cord to his abdomen. THAT’S HUGE! Something I hope not to get. I’m still counting pounds. I’m supposed to gain 2-4 pounds in my first trimester and than one pound a week there after. I’m trying to figure out how to reduce these numbers. Hey! I know I have something growing inside of me. I get that already, but I need to shed these pounds quickly after this little bundle of glorious joy is born. I’m not going into the first six months of his life pudgy, cause after six months it’s no longer baby weight, it’s my weight. And I believe in young mothers looking fly when sashaying down the road pushing their strollers, showing off their babies. Not the ones that get half way down the road and have to turn back, because they can’t catch their breath.
Sweet baby Jesus be an elliptical machine in these hard times. We’re exchanging our treadmill for something a little gentler on my body. Low impact, but with a high return. Y’all got to remember, I’m a fat girl trapped inside a skinny girl’s body. I love food. Don’t let this size 6, which used to be a 4, fool y’all. That’s why I fidget so much. I’m trying to burn these calories!