"Umm . . . what's your name?"

I'm changing my name.

Jill is nearly impossible to pronounce/understand in Spanish (unless the person I'm talking to has an excellent command of English). First of all, the letter J in Spanish is pronounced like an English H. The sound for the English short "i" doesn't exist at all, and the double l is pronounced like a y.

"Como se llama?"

"Jill."

"Como?"

"Jill."

"Uhh . . . [very long pause] . . . Jeee?"

"That's it!" I reward ANY attempt at pronouncing my name with a huge smile and a confidence-boosting, "Yes! Exactly! That's me!"

I even fear that the non-pronounceability of my name has costed me a friend. Way back in March, I met a woman at the park who had just moved to Saltillo that week, didn't know anyone apart from her husband and daughter (who is just 4 months older than mine), and seemed to be just as excited to meet me as I was to meet her. We exchanged phone numbers with promises to call each other the following week.

I tried to call her. But her number was a cell phone. All my past experiences with cell phones in Mexico has taught me that 044 or 045 needs to be dialed before the number. But I wasn't having any luck getting through to Marisela. Finally, after a month of trying her without any success, I just dialed her number like it was a regular long-distance number. Bingo. I left a message. But was she still using that cell phone with her number from Tampico?

She may have tried to call me. But if she was unsure about how to pronounce my name, would she have called? I can only imagine having a piece of paper with a super-short unpronouncable name on it. "Yeah, hi. I'm calling for . . . uhh . . . are you that woman I met in the park the other day?"

Had it been me, I would have waited to receive the call.

Which never happened. Boo.

During my first days at NPH, I hung out with the chicas quite a bit and remember their initial confusion about how to say my name. One day, we were watching young Jim Hawkins' adventures on Treasure Planet. Lupita Munoz turned to me with a light in her eyes, indicative that something just "clicked" for her. "Jim!" she exclaimed, connecting my name to that of Mr. Hawkins'. Oh, so close. But I'll take what I can get.

After way too long, I wised up. When leaving my name at stores to place an order, I am now Michelle. The cashiers at least understand it, despite the fact that my name is stored in the Farmacia Guadalajara's computer as MICHEL DUULAS. When introducing myself at my Bible study, I offered the name Michelle first, but siting that it was my middle name.

"What's your first name?"

They decided they could handle Jill. But now, three months after meeting these women, Jill has somehow morphed into Gina.

I'll take it.

Haunting . . .

For a few weeks, we've been teasing Little Girl about her "man fascination". Whenever we're on the street, she seems to pick out the men and stare at them. While this might worry me in about fifteen years, now it's just pretty funny, and speaks well of her relationship with Mario. I've known far too many kids who are terrified of all men, thanks to the scars (literal and figurative) that the men in their lives have left them.

Often when we're at home, we find one of us holding her and the other doing everything in our power to make her smile (which isn't hard). I ask her, "Isn't it great to grow up in a house where you're adored?" But really, all babies should live in a house where they are adored. Unfortunately, in too many cases, it's apparent that not all parents feel that way.

This past week, I've been reading Empire Falls by Richard Russo. In it, he describes a character that grew up with small-time drug dealer parents.

"When John was a little boy, it had been their habit to stuff him into a laundry bag, pull the string tight and hang him on the back of the closet door, where he could kick and scream to his heart's content. After awhile, he always calmed down, and they could have some peace. The trouble with the silence was that sometimes they'd forget all about him, fall asleep and leave him hanging there all night." (pg. 403)

That passage has been haunting me all week. Yes, this is a fictional character, but real kids are put through this everyday (and worse, if such experiences can be qualified).

Normally when Little Girl wakes up in the middle of the night, I like to wait awhile to see if she can't get herself to fall asleep again by herself. This week though, I've gone in quite a bit earlier than I normally would, more to reassure myself than her. While I never say anything while in her room in the middle of the night, running in there to put my hand on her chest or hold her is my way of praying for all those kids who are living through nightmarish experiences. Would that there were more that I could do.

As it is, I'll continue to do my best to adore the little one that has been entrusted to my care.