Love is Like Oxygen

Wow, remember that song?  Well, it’s relevant because this weekend the Husband Hausfraus took a road trip to a fabulous wedding, Das Baby, oxygen and all!

But first of all, I want to cover the etymology of our name. In real life, Das Baby’s name is Das Baby Husband Hausfrau: two last names, no hyphen. It took Herr Husband and me nine years of our relationship to come to an agreement on what our children’s last name would be. We only figured it out a few months before I got pregnant.

Of course we knew that both of our names had to be represented. It should be noted that in real life, neither Herr Husband nor I have particularly attractive last names. Mine is a clunker, and his is rather silly (sorry, my love) and its first syllable rhymes with the F-word. So naturally, both names had to be bestowed upon our progeny.

The problem was, we both wanted the inside spot, because we believed that this was the name with which doubly last-named people truly identify (I had taken a survey of students, and Herr Husband had asked around at work; plus it’s the name used when alphabetizing.) So we simply couldn’t agree. It was a stalemate, and solutions such as the flipping of a coin or the competing in feats of wisdom and strength were proposed.

Until one day, I suggested the following: his name could be the first last name, but there would be no hyphen. He agreed, we shook on it, and a pact was made.

I only revealed my devious plan a few weeks later, under the influence of tasty food and tastier wine. It was (and is) my belief that with two last names and no hypen, Hausfrau looks like the real last name, whereas Husband looks like a second middle name! Hah hah! Well, the joke is on me, or really on Das Baby. He was known in the NICU as Baby Hausfrau, or, MC Hipster Hausfrau (the MC was for Male Child, but I liked to imagine it meant that I was a rapper). At the hospital where he currently sees various specialists, they run his name together as Husbandhausfrau. At the drugstore he’s Das Hausfrau. To the insurance company, he’s Das Husband Hau. It’s going to be a confusing life. And, it should be noted, his first name is trisyllabic, as is the real-life version of Hausfrau. His middle name and Husband have two syllables each (much like Baby and Husband). He’ll probably change his name to Smith when he turns eighteen.

But enough of that digression, what I wanted to discuss was our weekend AWAY. That’s right, we took the Das Baby show on the road to New Hampshire to attend the wedding of our dear friends Beejer (a Portmanfaux of their names, because mixing their actual names together was hard because of blended consonants). The wedding itself was magical, set on a beautiful, rustic New Hampshire estate. Beejer have been friends since high school, and watching them fall in love over the past few years has been amazing, culminating in a wedding during which they were both totally aglow. And man, do they know how to throw a party.

Now you can see the beauty of the setting. But you can't see the beauty of Beejer because I didn't ask their permission. So instead, you can see me, Herr Husband and Das Baby playing the key parts in the wedding. So now I've made their wedding about us, which was sort of the point of this post anyway. Sorry, guys! Congratulations!

Also magical was how easy it was to travel with Das Baby. I mean, traveling with a baby is never easy. They require more crap than God (or so the evil marketing geniuses have led us to believe–millions of babies worldwide get by with very little crap. Well, I mean, all babies create a fair amount of crap, but I’m talking about things like stroller attachments and bottle sterilizers and breast pumps and the other accoutrement that Das Baby needed for his weekend away). Then add on Das Baby’s medical crap, like cannula, face stickers and oxygen tanks (note to other parents of oxygen dependent babies; if you bring extra tanks, don’t leave them in the hot car like we did. I fear we nearly blew up the city of Keene, which would have been too bad, because it was actually quite charming).

But once we got on the road, things were surprisingly easy. We loved being in the hotel with Das Baby because we got to share a king sized bed with him (something we’ll be able to do in our new home, too, which will surely be the subject of another post).

Das Baby was incredibly good at all wedding related events. He was quiet through the ceremony, and smiley and cute during social time. The hard part was telling people they couldn’t touch him, and keeping him away from all smoke and sources of open flame: nothing ruins a wedding like an exploding baby. The other hard part was realizing that we couldn’t so much do the cavorting/engaging in dance-offs/giving unsolicited life advice to friends routine that we customarily perform at weddings. Because, you know, Das Baby needed us to do things like feed him and hold him and not let him blow an eardrum from the speakers. But it was great fun nonetheless. We loved being part of Beejer’s special day, and we caught up with lots of friends and enjoyed finally folding Das Baby into our lives a bit more after a winter of sequestration.

We even managed one dance as a family to the Duran Duran song “Rio,” which I used to sing as “Her name is Leda…” I told the lady half of Beejer I planned to make the song about Das Baby when it played at their reception, which I did. Das baby grinned and giggled throughout our dance, although I think some of the real grown-ups at the wedding might have judged our parenting, as it was like 10 at night.

Die Familie at the Wedding. Yes, that is an adorable plaid blazer Das Baby is wearing. He was the second best dressed person there, after the bride (apologies to the male half of Beejer, but come on, it's hard to compete with an ex-preemie in a plaid blazer).

This was still probably better than the judgmental looks I received from grown-ups at my own wedding for my tasteless booty dancing. Here’s to Das Baby engaging in similarly questionable activities someday, and to Beejer’s lifetime of bliss (and–why not–booty dancing too! Booty dancing for all!)


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