The revealing of new baby's name

No, not his real name, silly. It's much too soon to be sharing such privileged information, even with loyal readers such as yourself. All apologies.

But the baby does have his official in utero name. It was actually Henry's idea, in a way. See, when there's something that Henry's got that he likes, and he's suddenly out of it, he does not hesitate to ask for more. As in "moa!" Or the more common "mo mo [insert item Henry wants here, raising the last syllable slightly as if one were asking a question, or as if one were speaking with an Irish accent]." If Henry runs out of milk and must have more, it's "mo mo mano!" (mano = milk in Henryese...or is it Henryish?) If he scarfs down all the beef on his plate without giving any to the dog, we hear "mo mo beef!" If I'm swinging him around the room and yelling "Wheeee!" as part of the little game we play called "Wheee!" but then dare to put him down, I get demands of "mo mo whee!" Which is hilarious since the kid is visibly dizzy, stumbling like a drunken toddler across the floor.

If the song ends, casting us into musicless silence, it's just "moa." He doesn't yet have a word for the nicely put-together sounds that come out of the speakers.

So I figured, since there will be more baby around to love, new baby may be referred to as Momo. As in "mo mo baby!"

Plenty dopey, I know, but it only has to last while he's baking. Once he's made it out into the world with us, little Sherman Washington or Justus Aurelius or Apollo Marcon or whatever the new little Holmes comes to be called (you like our short list?) can ditch his womb moniker for good.

Exit Sandman

Fair warning, for I am a fair blogger: if you didn't grow up listening to Metallica like I did, then this post will be meaningless and dumb. If, however you did grow up listening to Metallica like I did, then this post will be stupid and devoid of humor.

But it's simply not my fault that I keep running across the story of the Swedish couple who is being blocked by their government from naming the product of their intimate relations Metallica. Little baby Metallica. It seems odd to name a child after a band, particularly one with the most short-sighted name in the history of music. They might as well have been "Genre Which Will Live Forever" or "Hole Where Pigeons Live." Perhaps it didn't look good on a black tee-shirt.

I first saw the story around the beginning of the month, forgot about it, then just the other day somebody on Strollerderby brought it up again. Which is understandable since it's rife with weighty ramifications regarding personal freedoms, the importance of names, and um, other stuff I'm sure. But really, the immediate question that comes to mind is obvious, right? What folks around the world want to know is, Aspelund? Malm? Mörkedal? Perhaps Ånes? Tell us people, exactly which Ikea bed was this child patriotically conceived atop of?

And beyond that improper query, what are the musical possibilities? What Yankovic-isms can be made out of this story? There's the obvious bastardization of "One" that I came up with back when Henry was first born and he made the realization that his car seat was not in fact his best friend, that it was in fact a force to be rebelled against:

Carseat! Imprisoning me!
Hands and my feet!
Absolute horror
I cannot move, so I'm gonna scream
I'm gonna yell,
Make your drive into heeeeell.

And of course the Swedish government's own response to this couple's query, straight off the Black Album:

You're a Swede, so's your baby
So we dub that name rejecteeeeeed.

Or right off of Master of Puppets:

Master of Sweden is changing your naaaame!

And of course, a good birth story told to the tune of "Enter Sandman"

Eeeexiiiit womb, eeeenter hosipital room.
Whoooo's this maaaaan?
Oh fuck me, this guy's my dad.

Hey, I warned you this was stupid. But it gave me an excuse to burn too much time making this: