Lay softly down now
Let the world drift far away
In my arms you’re safe
In the spirit of a David Letterman Top Ten routine, let’s break down the top ten actual reasons Trump might have had a baby shown to the exit:
10. The baby’s hands were larger than Trump’s.
9. Putin called and demanded the baby be ejected immediately.
8. Trump was afraid the baby was demanding the release of his tax returns.
7. Baby’s cries of “Waaa! Waaa!” easily mistaken for “Wall! Wall!” and Trump still has no idea how to get one built.
6. Trump had a huuuuge headache and the baby was getting on his last nerve.
5. The baby’s basic understanding of the U.S. Constitution greatly exceeded Trump’s.
4. Because women are having babies and some of them grow up to be murderers, some grow up to be rapists, and some, he assumes grow up to be good people. The odds weren’t in this baby’s favor.
3. The baby appeared to be rigged in favor of the Democrats.
2. Firing the baby wasn’t an option.
And the number one reason Trump had this baby booted from the event:
Baby might have ties to the Muslim Brotherhood.
Written in response to the Daily Post’s Daily Prompt:
Say Your Name
Write about your first name: Are you named after someone or something? Are there any stories or associations attached to it? If you had the choice, would you rename yourself?
The story of my first name, Leslie, hinges upon the story of my middle name, D’Aun.
My mother had a close friend whose daughter was named D’Aun, (pronounced Dee Awn). Mom was enamored of the name, but didn’t want to infringe on the friend’s daughter’s name. And I suppose that might’ve been awkward.
“D’Aun, stop that right now!”
“But Mommy, I’m not doing anything!”
“Not you, D’Aun–D’Aun!”
So rather than deal with the confusion and the imagined penalty of name theft Mom elected to find a first name to precede the name D’Aun. Apparently that was no easy task. Many names were considered and subsequently discarded.
Then as my mom’s due date drew near her mother, (my Nanny), found my name while reading a book. The heroine was Leslie. And that name seemed to fit well with D’Aun.
I’ve always believed the book Nanny was reading was Giant by Edna Ferber. It was published in 1952, and I was born in ’56, so the timing would’ve been right.
In the film version of Giant, Leslie is played by Elizabeth Taylor, so that only adds to my certainty that I am the character’s namesake. I mean, just look at her and then look at me! Or not.
Oh, that friend of Mom’s with the daughter named D’Aun–I don’t recall ever having met her. As is often the case friends from those early years drift away and are never heard from again. They could’ve left D’Aun as my first name and no one would’ve cared.
There was a time in my life when I wished to have that romantic sounding moniker. D’Aun! I imagined in high school how much different my life might be as a D’Aun! But plain old Leslie suits me. I don’t think any other would fit me quite as well.
Long ago, in a hospital far, far away…
A beautiful baby girl was born. Tiny, with a full head of dark hair, our Ashley completed our family. We knew she’d be our last kiddo–and perhaps we spoiled her a little. Ok, a lot. But she was easy to spoil.
At her four week checkup our general practitioner noticed our baby had an irregular heartbeat, a slight murmur, he said, and sent us to a pediatric heart specialist in Amarillo. By the time we were able to see Dr. Jones, Ashley was almost six weeks old. He diagnosed her as being in the early stages of heart failure and immediately sent us to the hospital.
What followed was a controlled panic fueled by guilt. Our baby seemed quite healthy to us. How was it we hadn’t noticed the slight blue cast to her lips when she cried? Well, she really didn’t cry much, only when she was hungry, needed a diaper changed, or was being bathed. She was so easy to comfort.
On December 8, 1980, I sat in a hospital room at St. Anthony’s hospital in Amarillo, Texas. As I nursed my baby girl, television programming was interrupted to inform us that John Lennon had been murdered outside his apartment building in New York. Dr. Jones walked in the room at that moment to find me crying, and he sat with me as we watched the shocking news.
Dr. Jones finally told me he’d made arrangements for Ashley to be transferred to a hospital in Houston where she’d most likely be undergoing surgery to repair a ventricular septal defect. So, just before Christmas, Studly, my mom, our son Jason, Ashley, and I flew to Houston.
A great deal of testing and waiting, waiting and testing ensued. Our poor baby was poked and prodded and hooked to tiny electrodes. She remained happy throughout. In fact, the only thing she protested was bath time, and she hated that with a passion. At midnight before her scheduled surgery I was instructed that she could have nothing to eat. Did I mention earlier that I was a nursing mother?
The two of us managed to cope through the night with the use of a pacifier and lots of snuggling, but by 10 a.m. I’m not sure which of us was more miserable. My baby was hungry and crying. My breasts were swollen like two overripe cantaloupes. Studly kept pestering the nurses about our situation. Then Mom went in search of someone who could help.
At noon I hefted a swollen melon under each arm and marched to the nurses’ desk. I told the nurse on duty that our little one had been scheduled for surgery, but that no one had come and that little Ashley was really hungry. Her suggestion–perhaps she could suck on a lollipop. I lost it. In my imagination I took one breast and squirted milk right in her eye. In reality I blubbered something about boobs and infants and being scared and why wouldn’t someone do something.
The nurse apologized and went immediately to find an answer. Within a few minutes we had a doctor at our door. The delay had resulted from a split decision. Some of the surgical staff wanted to operate. Others wanted to try medication to regulate Ashley’s heartbeat to see if the defect would close on its on and reevaluate in six months. At that point, I didn’t care, I just wanted to feed my baby.
In the end, there was no surgery. The doctors put Ashley on a form of digoxin and she thrived. Every year we went for heart check ups, all of which were great, and eventually there was no trace of a defect. Hooray for split decisions!
Our Ashley is 34 years old today. She is bright, beautiful, sassy, stubborn, and the mother of three of my beautiful grandbabies. Sometimes when I look at her I still picture her tiny face just as it looked so many years ago, watching me as I held her close. She’s grown up, but she’s still my little baby girl. Love you, Ashley.
Peace, Baby Girl.
P.S. Ashley your gift is going to be late.