Moving house, hot weather and playing games...

So (if you read) my last post mentioned that we were going to be moving house. And I was really excited about it. This is still 100% true, it's just that we are now doing it significantly sooner than we had thought. We have always quite liked our landlord. We've never met her in person, but her son-in-law reluctantly deals with things for her and he's funny and not overly bothered about anything and tends to say 'yes' to whatever we want to do and ask her later, which has worked in our (cat-based) favour. So we didn't worry at all about giving her 30 days notice that we were moving out (as required by our lease.) This is where the chaos kicks in- turns out she thought this wasn't long enough, and was really unhappy about it. In my general experience, unhappy landlords = less security deposit back, and we had paid an additional pet deposit that we suspected would be held on to for less good reason than the main deposit.

She then set up lots of appointments to have the apartment viewed at the WORST possible times- once she gave us (and her poor son-in-law who was doing the viewing) 15 minutes notice- I had to RUN back from the village in 90 degree heat- there was literally sweat dripping off my nose. The next time she arranged it for 9am on a Sunday. We are NOT morning people. Especially holiday-weekend morning people. Thankfully, both the people who viewed the place on Sunday wanted it, so she was happy again. But she wanted us out sooner. Turns out her main objection to our original move-out plans wasn't so much the lack of notice but rather the fact she was missing the start of term for UCLA. She likes to rent to graduate students and they need somewhere to live before uni starts. This is absolutely not unreasonable, and if she'd just told us that, could have saved a LOT of hassle. Long story short, she emailed us and asked us how quickly we could be out. So next Friday we collect the keys to our new place and the next Monday we hand over the keys to the current one- all cleaned and fancy looking ready for the carpet fitters to come and make it better than it is now. 

It's all fine really, but poor husband has been seriously stressed out trying to deal with it all- phone calls with University housing asking to change dates, weird email chains with landlords etc. It's been rough, but by a week on Monday, it'll all be worth it. I hope. We've still not actually seen the new place...

In other news, it is really effing hot. The temperature has been hovering around the 90 degree mark for the last week, (that's about 32 degrees in British weather) and today it is apparently 98 degrees (37C) and I am too damn hot. I am mostly crediting this as a pregnancy thing, as generally I love hot weather. It doesn't bother me at all. I like being outside in it, and feeling the sun slightly blister my skin. This is not our first September in Southern California. I relished the heat last year. This year I am sweaty and damp and not sleeping and unhappy. Our air-conditioning, which we have only used a handful of times before now, is running constantly. There is more than one fan running all day in our bedroom- one of them is just pointed directly at me ALL NIGHT. It is a constant battle to stay at a temperature where I can function, and I've effectively just stopped going out during the day. I really want to go shopping and go to the fabric shop and maybe even go and get a coffee and I haven't done any of these things since it's too damn hot outside and it'll make me feel ill. The good news is it's only supposed to last til Monday, then the temp will go back down to the mid-80s, (about 29C) which is infinitely more pleasant 

Since most of this blog post has been me complaining about things (sorry) I'll move on to something all the more hilarious. Last night was our first ante-natal class. We walked into the hospital (which is LUSH, by the way, One of the nicest buildings I've been in since we got here) and headed to Conference Room 3, where a bunch of preggos were sitting with tired looking men in a semi-circle round the room, and an older lady with white hair was sitting at the front. This all looked exactly as I expected it to in my mind's eye. I looked the same amount of pregnant as everyone else in the room, which was a relief as I was worried I was too organised and had booked it too early (although one lady is due before the last class- hope it doesn't come early...) It was straight after dinner, which meant I had to leave the room approximately every 15 minutes to pee, which no one minded thankfully, but I was left wondering where all these other ladies got their staggering bladder capacity, as I seemed to be the only one. 

When I was out at the bathroom (for the second time) she started the introductions. She started with the partners, apparently. This meant my husband was up first. I have no idea what he said (this really bothers me, but I cannot figure out why since how much can he embarrass me saying his name and Kick's due date, really?) but I came in half-way through and he was looking at the instructor blankly as she asked him about 'the games he played'. Eventually he kind of said he didn't talk to the baby directly through my stomach, and she said 'she'll know your voice anyway' and I was thoroughly confused but we moved on. It turned out she was asking the partners what games they played with the baby. The baby that is still in my stomach. All of them answered in a slightly confused manner that they didn't play any games with the baby with varying degrees of humour . Personal favourites included "well, peek-a-boo, obviously" and "Does it count as a game that every time my wife tells me to feel her stomach because the baby is kicking, it stops? Because we play THAT game every night" 

We reached the end of the semi-circle, pausing to explain that the last couple were not a couple at all, but rather two student nurses sitting in on the session (explains why the girl was in skinny jeans and not, y'know, pregnant.) Then the instructor just moved on. No reference to what 'games' the should be playing, or why or anything. Just moved on. Then it was my turn to start for the lay-dees, as the Southern instructor said, and I said my favourite thing about being pregnant was that people always let you skip the queue for the toilets. Everyone else proceeded to tell stories about how much they love feeling their babies kick, and I felt like a total tool. Never mind, at least I'm being true to myself...

Life Lately...

I am really terrible at blogging regularly. I could never be one of those people who posts every day, or has a weekly schedule, I just don't have a) the commitment or b) enough to say. But things have been busy, and I've had other priorities, so the blogging falls by the wayside a bit, and when I come back I have TONS to say (cannot vouch for how interesting it is though...)

I am now 26+4 weeks pregnant. Depending on who you ask, I either have 3 days or 1 week and 3 days left of my second trimester (WHY can't these people just agree?!) and according to 'What to expect when you are expecting' Little Kick is now 15 inches long, which explains why she can simultaneously bosh me in the hip bone (particularly unpleasant, and her aim of choice) and the top of my stomach. At times we've seen the little lump of a foot appear sticking out, or the long line of a spine as she pushes as far to the side as she can. I've gotten used to it, and I mostly love to feel her in there, but at times it is still really uncomfortable, and it still makes me feel guilty to say that.

I *think* she has a name, but we don't call her by it yet. It seems somehow unlucky, or maybe just plain strange to use it, as if somehow it's sacred and special. We've told no one. Every so often we say 'Does she have a name?' and either me or husband replies "Yeah, I really like it, I can't think of anything else." And that's the end of the conversation; no more debate or reading Nameberry or worrying about it. That is just what she will be called. Just not yet. Part of the reason I think it's probably the right one is that I can't remember which one of us suggested it. I do know we were sitting at the bar of our local, watching baseball, husband with his beer and me with my Lemonade. One of mentioned it, we both liked it, we talked about the spelling for a few minutes, then went back to the Dodgers. It was so low-key, it had to be perfect. It's almost exactly the same way we decided to get married, or move to Los Angeles. Quiet, vaguely considered and drama-free.

I feel a bit like I have been pregnant forever. The bump slowly grows and grows, the monthly OB appointments pass one after another with little fanfare or excitement, and the doctor smiles and says "You're doing brilliantly. This is all going to be fine" and I feel so good and so... normal that I fully believe her. In some ways I'm a little afraid to rock the boat, but our ante-natal classes start next week, and with them comes hospital tours, paediatrican appointments and breastfeeding classes (which make a lot more sense now I wake up to leaking boobs most mornings. Gross, but oddly reassuring.) All things that people who are really, truly having a baby do. 

We started talking delivery with the doctor this week. We have a very rough plan (stay at home as long as we can, eat as much as we can, then head to the hospital. Epidural at 4-6cm dilated) which is of course subject to an absolute butt-ton of change. I want the room to be bright and filled with music and noise, I think. But I always want every room ever to be bright and filled with music and noise, so this isn't really a labour plan so much as a life one.

In much bigger, more dramatic news, we have a new house (well, apartment- Americans are always oddly specific about these things. In the UK I take house to mean both the concrete, literal interpretation and the more abstract 'place where you live.') This place is a University owned apartment, with 2 bedrooms and 2 bathrooms and a big living room and bigger-than-we-have kitchen. It has come at exactly the right time as I get to move before delivery is immanent, which would have worried me a bit, and I still have just enough energy to put our possessions in boxes. (At this point I would like to give a shout-out to my hero friend Fiona, who just moved to Australia from Scotland despite being extremely pregnant. She is my house-moving hero.) Also, there will be somewhere for my mummy to sleep when she comes over, which I was really worried about since she has arthritis and needs somewhere comfy to sleep. We move in about 3 weeks, and I am really looking forward to it. I can't wait to create an actual nursery for Kick to sleep in, a proper babies' room rather than shoving her in a corner of our only bedroom. It will make things easier when husband has to get some sleep before work and I need to be up in the middle of the night. Most importantly, our monthly bills are about to go down by a couple of hundred dollars per month, which is good since that gap will be filled with nappies and clothes and other things Kick needs. 

Speaking of things Kick needs, I've recently started my most ambitious sewing project to date. I'm making an activity gym for her. It involves a whole lot of fabric, flexible plastic tubing and a lot of padding. It has different textures and toys, a mirror and whole LOT of other fancy bits I can't believe I've managed to make. I've been doing a lot of sewing recently (two baby showers this past Sunday...) and now have a few things I'm excited to get making. I still want to do one of my cheater's quilts for Kick- I made one for Just Me's baby boy (Going to put a side note in here about how awesome it is to have a fellow preggo friend in LA. Hanging out with/texting/facebooking with her has literally made all the difference to having a big massive life-changing event with all my friends and family so far away) but I think I want to do one for Kick too, since they are the perfect thick-ish blanket for winter in SoCal- not that thick but warm enough for outdoors. Plus they are pretty small and I can make them in the most awesome fabrics. I also made a load of burp cloths to give as wee gifts for husband's colleague, and since I read all over the place that pre-fold cloth nappies make the best burp cloths (this is what Americans use for baby sick instead of muslins- still struggling to get my head round the idea of a muslin-free newborn...) so I used them as a base but made them thicker with a cool printed fabric. I used this as a basis, and they were so easy I plan on making approximately 1000 for Kick.

This has ended up being a pregnancy update more than anything else- sorry about that! Un-baby related activities include listening to this a whole lot, reading Wallender crime books, and finally watching Broadchurch (if you are in the US, you MUST watch it. The whole thing is on-demand if you have one of the main cable/satellite providers.)

And now I have to go and do laundry, or 'the washing' as we call it in Scotland, distinctive from 'washing-up', which is what you do to your dishes. The glamour never ends...

On Childhood

I've been thinking a lot about childhood. This is probably not a huge leap to make, given that I now am in charge of giving one to someone else, but it's taken me by surprise. I had the kind of British childhood people that is much idolised and written about- no money, but lots of fun. Caravan holidays, books in abundance, Sunday afternoon board games and lots and lots of loud music. 

I desperately want our girl to have the same kind of childhood I had (we have no money, so we're halfway there...) but obviously as long as we are here in California it's going to be different. Instead of Kirby on the street and roller boots in the garden, it'll be the park and the beach. Instead of the local leisure centre, it'll be swimming in the apartment pool or the Ocean. She won't have cousins (and second and third cousins...) nearby for the kind of family BBQs that run on til after midnight. She won't go to church ceilidhs where her parents friends will teach her the steps by letting her dance on their feet. The constant sunshine will create totally different memories than mine: of walking to school in the driving rain, rare but magnificent snow days, miserable drizzle as you go shopping, howling wind through attic bedrooms as she listens to the Top 40 on the radio... you get the picture.

Some of these changes are good. There are more we plan on adding- after all, the best thing about having your own kids is fulfilling all the things you wish you could have done as a child. We love camping- I hope that will be a big part of Little Kick's life. We will always have pets- Joanie is a massive part of our family life, and I can't imagine not having furry little friends in the house. We also both love sport, and go to a lot of Dodgers games (because tickets are cheap, let's face it...) and we will almost certainly continue that with Kick. And I'll keep up some of the things my family did with us- discussing world news at the dinner table and expecting us to have an opinion (even if you are 4 years old,) after school trips to the library, hand made costumes for fancy dress parties. My grandad would make us figure out long words for ourselves by working out the latin root; it works- I still do it. She'll have to get good at general knowledge or my aunts will never pick her to be on their quiz team on Christmas day.

I'm sure my parents and sibings will be happy to ensure Kick has a lot of these experiences. She'll have long summers in the UK, ideally in a Caravan in North Yorkshire, games of Scrabble and Boggle where no one goes easy on her because that way she'll learn. There will be Motown and ABBA classics belting out the car stereo, old episodes of Poirot on TV and lots and lots of stories.  

It's easy to get nostalgic about the kind of experiences you had, and I am almost certainly doing it right now. At the end of the day, the world has moved on, and husband and I don't spend our evenings the way our parents did- too many laptops and kindles and phones to be played with- none of which existed when I was growing up (my husband's first mobile phone took double A batteries. Seriously.) Lord knows what kind of kit Little Kick will have at her disposal that is better than talking to her boring old parents... 

What bits of your childhood do you want to preserve? Anything you really want to make sure your kids don't do? (I'm looking at you, Saturday afternoon garden centre trips...) I'm so interested to hear the traditions other people have- I may have to borrow them...

Home alone...

Well, I am officially alone in a city where I don't really know anyone. Husband is in Indianapolis for work until Wednesday night. Friends, who have been here since last Wednesday are in San Diego for the final leg of their road trip down the coast left at the same time as husband. It's totally embarrassing to admit but I cried when they all left (obviously not in front of anyone, except the cat.) 

It is just me, Joan and Little Kick for the next few days. It's weird. It's weird for a ton of reasons, but mostly because I seem to have completely tricked myself in some strange way. My husband has always travelled a lot for work. I've rarely been able to go with him due to work (and because honestly, it's his thing, not mine) so I've often been home alone. I was talking to a friend and mentioned how much I used to enjoy being home alone. The more I thought on this, though, the more I realised it was utter bollocks. I have NEVER enjoyed being at home whilst he's been away. I always felt full of self pity, lamenting that if I died no one would notice and I might get eaten by Alsatians. I ate only junk food, spent too long on the internet and generally was a wallowing mess of self pity. I never enjoyed it. That is a straight-up lie. 

This time, I feel a bit more vulnerable than usual. Being pregnant adds a certain degree of panic, I think. Add to that the fact I got impressively sunburnt at the beach yesterday (my first time being burnt across the board, rather than the odd little patch. *sigh*) so I am hot and uncomfortable. That being said, I am definitely dealing with it better than husband, who has been gone 6 hours and has called 3 times (this might be airport boredom though...)  

Ah well, it's not like I have nothing to do. I definitely need to do some cleaning and tidying- four people in a one bedroom apartment for 4 days leads to CHAOS. I also want to do some internet shopping (sorry husband...) and I have baby blankets to sew and baseball games to watch and 3 extra volunteering shifts to do. Time will fly before I know it. I have my girls to keep me company, and really, I can list 3 or 4 people I can call if there is some sort of emergency that I need some support for. Woe is not really me, I just need to get off the sofa!

Curiouser and curiouser

This week has been strange. I have been first-trimester level tired all week; barely moving from the sofa all day, crying when I had to clean things (like the bathroom. and dirty clothes), falling asleep on the sofa before the end of the 7th Inning. Plus I've been adjusting to feeling Little Kick do ALL the movements. Husband has now finally felt, and seen, her dancing all over my stomach, like I have the sort of food poisoning you see in cartoons. 

I loved feeling the little movements- little reminders that she was there, happy. Then on Monday they started getting really intense and big and, quite frankly, forceful. And honestly, despite feeling like the worst person in the world for saying it out loud, I stopped liking it so much. On Wednesday morning she kicked so hard it actually woke husband up. He loved it, and I had to remind him that I could actually feel it INSIDE ME when she did that, and I really wasn't loving it. I begged her to stop. Which she did. For the rest of the day.

This brings us to my next spiral of parenting shame- I desperately wanted her to move again, but I know that babies have periods of a LOT of activity then periods of none- they basically sleep 20 hours a day in there, so you can't be surprised that they are still for large chunks of time. I was really patient. I felt the odd movement once or twice which kept me satisfied until I fell asleep on the sofa far before actual bed time. The next morning, it was the same. The odd little movement- enough to stop me calling the doctor and demanding they tell me EXACTLY what she was doing in there right now, not enough to stop me googling at-home foetal heart monitors which I was going to buy that very night. I decided I was going to MAKE her move. I felt guilty that I couldn't be satisfied and just let her sleep, or relax, or face my back and kick round there or whatever it was she was doing, but I had to know that she was ok, and disturbing her as much as possible seemed the only way. 

I did my yoga DVD. Nothing. I went for a hot shower then downed an ice-cold bottle of water. Tiny flickers. I went for a walk round the park across the road. Nothing. I drank a mini can of Sprite. Tiny flickers. Eventually, I gave up. I'd felt her a bit, and it would have to be enough. I sat out on a sun lounger with my book, exhausted after a morning of worrying and ridiculous endeavours. And she went mental, kicking and spinning like mad. *sigh* Little Kick is most definitely my daughter- happiest when curled up with a book. She continued to be super active for the rest of the day, proving that she was, in fact, just sleeping and honestly couldn't be bothered with my nonsense.

Which brings me to this morning. I woke up to some fairly average movements. I got up and had a cup of tea, reading the Caitlin Moran back catalogue on the Times website- a seriously limited time offer since their paywall was down. I laughed so hard at one point that I broke into a coughing fit. And then I realised I had a really sore stomach. Like, all stretched out and painful and horrible. I looked down and realised the baby was STICKING OUT THE SIDE. Like, a big lump out of nowhere that felt all solid and baby like. I'm not going to lie, I freaked out a lot little. I started gently rubbing the weird baby-lump, and she obviously found this extremely irritating and swooshed her way back into a more sensible position that didn't cause me any pain. I was incredibly relieved.

So there you have it, I am an ungrateful, spoilt lady who doesn't appreciate the miracle of life inside her. I feel like a terrible mother. Ah well. I'll probably just have another cup of tea. To quote Mr Bennett: '...The feeling shall pass, and probably much more quickly than it should...'

Yosemite and me...

My last post came to you from my bed. this one is coming from my sofa but that's only because the Dodgers game is on and I don't have a TV in the bedroom. Las Vegas post to follow (I have to get photos from other people AGAIN. I did remember my camera, and even to take the camera outside with me. Then I realised the memory card was still in my laptop. I am NOT GOOD at cameras.) 

This post is all about Yosemite National Park, which I felt at the time was completely exhausting but with a week of perspective that involved a wedding in Las Vegas, I now think it was actually pretty relaxing... The drive was LONG. Husband is a total hero. We set off at 9-ish, and finally arrived at 4.30-ish. This was through the agricultural heartland of central California (ie. big, flat, hotter than Hades.) There was absolutely zero view to enjoy and nothing but low vineyards and shimmering desert as far as the eye could see. That actually makes it sound better than it was. My other main problem with this drive is that American radio is TERRIBLE at the best of times, but because there is no national service a la BBC Radio 2, it is constantly losing signal so you have to hunt for ages to try and find another mediocre station that will last you 20 minutes before it becomes fuzzy again. Part of the reason we got our car so cheap was that the CD player has the Oasis album 'Standing on the shoulders of Giants' stuck in it, which everyone knows is just terrible. *sigh*

All the complaining aside, the minute we arrived in Yosemite national park, it was all worth it.

The weird thing for me is that it was really hot, even though we were in amongst mountains and trees and therefore it should have been cool. At the time, I said 'God, it's really hot' a lot, but with the benefit of a hindsight/a weekend in Vegas, I'm going to say it was beautiful warm weather.

We made our way to the campsite, to be greeted with what I can only describe as a canvas Butlins. I think all three of us (husband, Pauline (the intern from his department and taker of all these photographs- thanks Pauline!) and I) were pretty disappointed. Being European rugged types, we all normally like our camping with less wifi and Starbucks. The tents were SO close together and there was literally thousands and thousands of people there. Once the rest of our group arrived, we got settled into our canvas cabins (this is probably the best description, sort of half tents/half cabins, with proper beds and a wooden floor but canvas walls) it turned out that we didn't actually have anyone right next to us, but they were still pretty close. 

Unlike every other camping trip I've ever been on, you were not allowed to cook on the site. This is because of the bears. Yosemite is full of bears who really love barbeque. Apparently they can tell the difference between a Trader Joe's bag and a Target bag from the colours, and they know Trader Joe's = food. They make Yogi and Boo Boo look like half-arsed amateurs. You can't even leave food in your car, because they have been known to rip the doors off to get at it. Once the initial terror died down, we realised this would mean eating all our meals at the various restaurants on site. This turned out to be pretty good, especially for husband who had a beer at the bar as soon as we arrived, but we probably wouldn't stay there again. I like my nature a wee bit more... natural.

After a Shabbat meal (we went with husband's boss and his rabbi. Yeah, seriously) and an early night, we got up early to go for a hike. I'd like to take some time to discuss the difference between the US and UK definitions of 'hiking'. Now generally, in the US, 'going for a hike' is pretty interchangeable with 'going for a walk'. In the UK, a hike is a hardcore walk, one stage down from involving actual climbing. This meant that when husband's boss suggested 'going for a hike' I wasn't worried, I wanted to go for a decent walk, to enjoy being outdoors and enjoying the beautiful scenery. I was wrong.

The deceptive easy bit at the start...

Husband's boss obviously subscribes to the UK version of 'Hiking'. It was 8.5 miles of hardcore walking, involving a 3000ft ascent and more 'natural' stairs than I ever want to see ever, ever again. The group also included an 8 year old, and two woman in their 50s who had no desire to hike, so I was in pretty good company. Despite being at least fifty times fitter than me, husband stayed with me the whole way. He gave me all his water to make sure I didn't dehydrate (even though he was really starting to suffer by the end.) It was seriously intense.

Perhaps the scariest moment of all it for me was looking at the above view and realising that I was going to have to walk to the top of the waterfall. And that this was only the half-way point. It was long, sweaty and my legs were BURNING, but I did it. It was so completely awesome to just be me for the day, not some delicate pregnant princess who needed to avoid too much exertion. I just walked and climbed and walked some more and drank 5l of water. In the end I actually chose to walk an additional mile beyond where I had to (there was a bus service back to the campsite) because I felt like I could keep going, even though the mile before I had been at breaking point. It was so totally worth the effort. Especially for the feeling I got being in the shower once we'd arrived back. If I could bottle that feeling, I would.

The view from the top of the final waterfall. Unfortunately, we still had to get back down...

Us at the end- still smiling, but probably from sheer delirium

After a shower and some pizza it was definitely time for a seriously early night. I felt so sorry for the Jewish members of our group- the wait for Shabbat to end meant they couldn't eat pizza until the sun set at 9pm. I was basically asleep by then. I lay in bed (admittedly, rather thankful that it wasn't an airbed in a tent at this point...) listening to husband and Pauline drink whisky and discuss the days events. Rather a nice way to drift off. 

Yosemite is on my list of places to go back to. We'll take the tents and a camping stove and a baby carrier to do a more leisurely walk, splash in the river and eat ice-cream from the campsite store, introducing our wee girl to the great outdoors. I can't wait.

A rose by any other name...

This post comes to you from my bed, which I have taken to in the manner of an over-vexed Victorian Lady after my weekend in Yosemite. A full post on that to follow, but because I left my camera in the car I am relying on Pauline, the lovely Anglo-French intern in my husband's department on sending me hers once she returns (most of the group are coming back today, but we left yesterday since we have a second road-trip to do this week.)

So today I am staying in bed with the air-conditioning on full blast, bruised and aching from a hike I should NEVER have attempted (it's listed as 'strenuous' in the Yosemite guide book. One day I will learn to read the guidebook before I get home from the trip...) with an extremely angry cat who was left alone (but well catered for) for a grand total of 48 hours and is now hell-bent on making us suffer for it.

The weekend was marvellous, as was last week. We discovered on Tuesday that our little girl is just fine. And very female. I did not believe this at first, but our lovely doctor spent a good few minutes showing exactly how female she is- it was indisputable. We then rewatched the DVD at home a few days later and were reminded that she is definitely a girl. I am so glad I found out that she is a she. I now have the next 20 weeks to get my head wrapped around having a daughter. My husband's plans for the baby remain unchanged-  now she, instead of he, will be an international footballer with science as a back-up plan. I don't think I really have plans for the baby beyond 'keep growing til we can safely get you on the outside' but I was glad he wasn't disappointed. 

Week 18, then week 20. Not a big difference, but definitely feeling it!

As I mentioned the other week, having a baby girl presents us with a problem. We have ZERO baby names for a girl. Well, we now have one potential thanks to my amazing friend Kathryn, who sent me a pretty impressive list during one of her 4am feeds, and we modified one of the ones on her list a bit and came up with another that met our criteria. If we use it, the story will always be the Auntie Kathryn named her since mummy and daddy are rubbish. So- our criteria. We have a few rules. Not quite in a Katie Hopkins style, but a few things we generally agreed on in order to filter things down a bit...

1. Nothing made up. Not that I have a massive problem with making up a name for your baby at all, but given that we already feel like we have too many options, it's an easy way to narrow it down.

2. Must have a nickname attached. This one is on me. The name Lorna does not shorten down to anything at all. I have spent my whole lifetime nickname-less. It makes me quite sad to have missed out on the immediate intimacy of having my friends and family call me something different than the man at the bank. By the same token, no nicknames as full names (eg Penny or Sammy) since this goes both ways.

3. Nothing gender neutral. No real reason for this, and subject to change. I AM totally open to boys names as nicknames, but would prefer not to have a full-on boys name for a girl (I think my reasoning behind this might be that I feel a bit sorry for the boys. Especially here in the US, the girls are just taking over good boys names and leaving boys with fewer options. Having written it down, I am now aware of how crazy I am.)

4. My husband must be able to spell it. He has the worst spelling of any clever person I have ever met, and this is his main rule. This largely rules out anything traditionally Scots or Irish, but given that we are currently in the US and these names would be routinely butchered, it's probably for the best.

5. Must not be associated with a ghastly child I have looked after. I cannot really be any more specific with this unfortunately, but so many names have been ruined for me forever either through bad behaviour (Cara, Adele, Ruby, Olivia) or something upsetting and tragic (Olivia, Paige.) We definitely have it easier here because we're having a girl (my boy's name banned list is longer than my arm...) and as my mother-in-law pointed out, both her and her husband were teachers, so they only had 2 names to choose from since between them, every name they could think of had a bad association for at least one of them. 

So there you have it. Have I made too many rules? Is this why we are struggling to come up with the short-list we want to have in place before she arrives? Any and all suggestions gratefully received...