hamburger

Throughout my childhood, I always had a fondness for my last name.  While other kids were uttering mouthfuls of "Schumaker" and "Humperdink", and learning to spell complexities like "Vanderplow", I was grateful for "Logan".  It was simple and made for easy new school introductions throughout our repeated transfers all over the Midwest during my young days.

I remember being thankful for that name and feeling that I was lucky to have it.  I even thought ahead about what an atrocity it would be to marry someone with a complicated or silly name someday.  Out of nowhere, the name "Hamburger" stuck in my mind.  Oh, the hilarious horror of becoming "Molly Hamburger" in the future!  I didn't obsess about it or anything, it just made me laugh.  Of course, this was before I walked into Mr. Brandon's sophomore English class and met the man of my dreams.  But that's another story.

"Hamburger" made me chuckle all through the years as I imagined myself or my friends with this silly surname down the line.  And as my life unfolded, I was relieved when my knight in shinning armor came attached to "Anderson"; just about as good as "Logan", if you ask me.  Still, I couldn't totally part with my maiden name, so I took it as my middle name to avoid being Molly ANNE ANderson.  And, admittedly, to hang on to it a little bit longer.  We then went on to name our firstborn daughter, Logan, too.  Lots of "Logan" for me.

But my personal penchant for "Hamburger" made a resurgence when I had a new young audience to entertain and I soon began telling my kids what a funny name I thought it was.  "What if you marry someone with the last name Hamburger?" I joke with my kids.  They laugh.  They think it's just as funny as I do.

Last night, while driving to gymnastics drop off and then to a baseball game, the kids were having a usual raucous discussion, this time about great movies.  One of our favorites, The Princess Bride, came up.  Logan was so adorably preteen sweet when she asked, "What's the only thing the farm boy says to her?"

"As you wish," I said and thought, I just love that.

And Logan said, "Oh yeah, I love that!" 

Then Riley asked, "What's that guy's name again?"

"I think it's Prince Humperdink," I answered.

And all three shouted, "Hamburger!  What if his last name was Hamburger?!"  Frenetic laughter broke out in the backseat.

And I laughed, too.  Hard.  It's nice to know these three kids really get me and that I'm leaving my mark on them, even if only via my bizarre history with the word "Hamburger." 

giving the brazilian a break

Aside from the birth order of my family, I've always been the youngest. 

I think it started in school because one of the many places we lived had a later date threshold for kindergarten, although it's nice to think I was just more brilliant than most! My lack of older siblings or cousins left me snugly and warm in this unfamiliar and youthful role among my peers.  But having kids is a great equalizer, and with everyone deciding a different age in which they'd like to begin popping them out, I got older in more ways than one.

Now my closest friends are every possible age, some even 8 to 10 years younger than I am.  It pains me to think how much more carefree and vibrant I might feel now if I wasn't 30 when we ushered Logan into the world (or 32 with Riley, or 34 with Finn.)  Although, even to feel younger, I wouldn't change a thing.

Yesterday I had my annual GYN check up.  I still drive 45 minutes to the laid-back, no-nonsense cool chick who was the only doctor in the practice that would entertain the idea of a VBAC, but who eventually delivered Riley and Finn via cesarean after my valiant attempt, just like Logan. 

When my wheels hit the pavement at each visit, there's a rush of nostalgia for that time and place, for the endless surprising possibilities I held in a burgeoning belly; a freeing and total love and acceptance of the unknown.  I suppose finding a closer and more convenient practitioner seems a little too much like cutting the cord that connects me to those cherished memories.

No worries, this isn't really a serious post.  I actually arrived at the office under a shroud of embarrassment.  You see, with youthful excitement, our recent weekend away inspired an aggressive bikini wax, one that I might not have undertaken had I remembered the doctor's visit in my schedule.  I went so far as to tell the doc before the exam.  "Don't think I'm some sort of weirdo," I blushed.

"Come on, Molly," she said.  "These days, anyone one with any hair at all is in the minority!"

Well, that sort of made me feel better. 

But the bastion of my increasing age crept back again and sunk in completely when it took two post-its to update my meds.  And when I left, albeit healthy, but with prescriptions for a now annual mammogram, cholesterol testing and a pelvic floor strengthening physical therapist?  Not only did I curse my experience with Insanity and our damn trampoline, I laughed out loud. 

In preparation for the appointment, baring my Brazilian had me in a regretful tizzy all weekend long.  At the visit's culmination, it was the only thing that made me feel young.  Never regret jumping out of your comfort zone - it just might save you in the end!