Thoughts On Baby Naming

Nicole Gonzalez and baby Lillie Sol, via her blog Lillies & León | photograph by Mary Grace

This week marks the start of my 3rd trimester of pregnancy. 28 weeks. I can't believe it's come this fast. Despite being more than ready to meet this little girl and embrace the challenges of new motherhood, I am still woefully unprepared to bring her home and step away from my job for 3+ months. Still so much to buy and prep and do!

Preparing for baby in all the big and little ways that one prepares for such things has been both fun and stressful. Jonathan is hyper-involved in everything, but most of the research on baby gear and essentials has fallen to me—mostly because I've embraced it like it's a full time job. But one area where we've both been particularly attentive is to the issue of baby names.

I don't know how most couples approach this kind of thing in the early stages of their relationship, but Jonathan and I—once we were each aware of the other's interest in having kids someday—talked openly about baby name preferences before nearly anything else, including marriage. It was probably because talking about baby names is one of my favorite topics of conversation period, full stop, and I forced him to talk to me about it. Six years ago, it was very important that he know how I felt about his preferred boy's name, Doc ("Hell no."), and it was necessary that I knew his feelings about my favorite girl's name at the time, Laila ("Not feeling it...").

He was such a good sport.

And so it went, the "What about...?" discussion happening a hundred times over the years, thus we were able to narrow down our top choices to a short list of possibilities that sat in stasis for upwards of three years. When we found out we were having a baby—and especially when we found out it was a girl—Jonathan's baby naming seriousness kicked into high gear. Something about the reality of picking a name for a real live person to have for their entire life makes you look at all your name choices differently. At least, it did for us.

A big discussion of late has been whether (and how) to honor family members in the naming of our baby. So many individual names and name combos we love, and that made our list, have little or nothing to do with family legacy. We liked the idea of family names, but neither of us thought it really mattered all that much when we were just ruminating over ideas. Now though... with an actual baby brewing... we are weighing all the pros and cons.

There are lots of pros and cons, it turns out.

So at 28 weeks, we're honing in on a much shorter short list of names, with one that's peaking out as the favorite. It's mind-boggling to have thought so much about baby names for so many years (long before Jonathan was even a blip on my romantic radar), and now... we get to name one. A girl who will hopefully live a long life with that name, carrying it into adulthood, hearing it through the voices of friends and lovers, putting it on job resumes!

The weight of such a life long decision is not lost on us. We're so honored to get the opportunity to name a human being—bestowing upon her the first little piece of her identity.

We've made the decision not to announce or discuss the baby's name until she's born, primarily because I would like to reserve the right to change my mind after seeing her little face! It's tough though, since I love talking about them so much...

SO TELL ME: If you've got some favorite baby names, or your children are already named and you love talking about the why and how you came up with that name, let me know in the comments. Are there names you used to love, but your partner nixed them? What about names you are sad you couldn't use because you are done having children? I would absolutely love to read all about it!

Baby names. I seriously can't get enough.

25 Weeks, 3 Days

We’re just shy of 11 months since I updated last, and I’ve been fairly comfortable with this. Another long, sustained break from writing, which has made me somewhat sad but also grateful that my life has been filled with other things, good and not so good, to whittle away the hours of my days.

I currently have six mostly-written posts pending about Jonathan’s and my wedding, which occurred nearly two years ago, and I have debated whether to ever bother finishing them. For myself, I would love to have the memories extensively documented -- the way only I can ramble on about details that no one but me really care about -- but there is also this tugging forward that makes me eager to look ahead and not back. Maybe just one post of my favorite photos from the day will do, and we can leave it at that. Perhaps inspiration will strike and I’ll finally pull out the hard drive that houses these memories and get the photographs added to the posts (basically the only thing keeping me from clicking "publish" on several of them.) We’ll see; I feel no pressure to do one or the other at this moment.

I did, however, feel inspired to stop by and talk a little about the newest development in our ever-changing lives...

I’m pregnant, finally, after 12 long months of trying. Currently 25 weeks and 3 days, due September 12th. At 20 weeks, we found out baby is a girl (!!!)—though, if I’m being honest, given the intensity of my food cravings, she may also be part burrito.

20-week burrito baby

Back in January and February, in the throes of incomprehensible fatigue and awful (but relatively minor) bouts of nausea, September felt so far away. 9 months. 8 months. That’s such a long time; countless hours left to plan, read, study, prepare, every little thing that feels important prior to welcoming a tiny human being into your home for forever. No reason to rush or stress. Plenty of time. Now though? I’m on the cusp of the 3rd trimester, baby spends inconvenient hours movin’ and groovin’ all over my bladder and colon, Jonathan has taken to speaking with her about his day, playing Nirvana and jazz so she comes out knowing what’s what. This weekend, we are preparing to move nearly all of our furniture around and purge more junk to make way for baby essentials. Summer will come and go. By September 26th (at the latest), Baby Hyatt will be here, coming home to our little one-bedroom apartment and menagerie of fur-balls. It feels as though she could be here any moment.

We’re thrilled/nervous/anxious/every emotion at once. I would be lying if I didn't admit that the enormity of this impending change has also, sometimes, left me feeling sad, cocooned in uncertainty; that sneaky yet all-too-familiar "What have we done?" sub-thought that appears spontaneously, only to upend my joy. The gravity is not lost on me, the reality of a new human of which we will be entirely responsible. One I will love more than I thought possible. I truly am full of all the feelings and I am doing my damnedest to embrace and own every bit of it.

So that's it. First time parents with zero minutes of infant care experience and exactly one diaper change between us. We have no idea what we’re doing but we are so, so, so excited/scared/etc. to learn.

Pure Imagination

by Gregory Colbert, via

My cousin, Eli, told me a story once about a pet elephant he kept in his jacket pocket. The elephant was no taller than his thumb. He tried taking this elephant onto an airplane, which was fine until he got onto the plane and at 32,000 feet, the elephant stealthily climbed out of his jacket pocket and started exploring the plane, right over everyone's bags and wadded-up coats. It was an hour before my cousin realized his pet elephant was gone, and had to figure out a way to find him without alerting the entire plane. He didn't want his elephant to get crushed or scared and run off and hide, he'd told me. He got up from his seat by the airplane window and walked to the front of the plane towards the cockpit, turned around and dropped a quarter down the long aisle. He fell to his knees, apologized, and started looking for his quarter -- actually, his pet elephant. I never found out if my cousin had found his elephant, because my mom said dinner was ready.

Eli was five when he told me this story. Not with the same, advanced vocabulary, but the plot went just like that. I was 17, in the middle of writing the play for a high school choir performance, and I remember thinking:

I've never in my conscious life come up with anything remotely as mesmerizing as this.

This wasn't because what he'd said was overly imaginative, but rather it was the ease with which he told the story. It was all about delivery. It wasn't a story to him; it had actually happened, yet I could see the cogs working behind his eyes -- never faltering, stopping only for a moment to think when I'd ask him what happened next. I stared at him like he was an amoeba growing legs. I looked at his mother, my Aunt Julie, and silently pleaded with her to give me some explanation. Was this a story he'd read? Had he seen a miniature elephant on TV? She shook her head, simply. No idea, she said with her eyes.

I'm not very good with kids, and I find myself bored with them easily. I don't like playing or pretending, and I certainly don't like to stop what I'm doing and go out of my way to entertain them...

On the other hand, I love listening to them. Their imaginations fascinate me, and the way they see the world is exquisite. I love asking questions and finding out more. Their lack of filters and their self-assuredness means there is no cap on what they can come up with. They don't concern themselves with what other people will think, or whether their stories and ideas will stand up to someone else's.

It's sad that most kids lose that freedom. I certainly did, that is, assuming I ever had it. I'd like to think I did, and that it's still inside me somewhere, locked away. I'm in such awe of adults to seem to have maintained that level of imagination and confidence. That's the key, I think.

My cousin is 14 now, and I told him this story over Thanksgiving dinner. He, of course, doesn't remember it, and is at that age now where rolling your eyes at everything is the jammiest of jams. He thought it was silly.

Anatomy of a Morning

Monday, written in a haze with heavy eyes and a peaceful heart.

It's stupid hot and humid here. Were it not for the cool whirring of the fan placed squarely in my direction from the foot of the bed, I would certainly have devolved into a goop-y, gelatinous blob during the night.

Ennis needs to be let out; he's asking me politely, but I ignore him. Every so often I'm startled back awake with the help of a little wet-nose poke on my arm. It's five o'clock and I want to be a good mom. But I'm not a good mom. I roll over one, two, three times more, and each time the fan hits me somewhere different on my body. It's so nice. I forget about Ennis.

Six o'clock, I hear his whines again. Maybe I'm a better mom than I was an hour ago? Yep, turns out I am. I roll out of bed the way little kids barrel roll down a grassy hill. Somehow I find yesterday's dress and something for my feet, then I walk outside. I don't open my eyes once.

Back inside, Fry is crying for food, but his cries do not distract me from my mission: back to bed, back to the soothing breeze of my fan. Ennis is satisfied, for the moment, and curls up between my feet. Fry joins us, pressing his furry orange face against mine and curling up to share my pillow with me. I kiss his little nose and then remember the giant cockroach he picked up and carried around in his mouth last night. It's the first time I've seen a cockroach anywhere I've ever lived. I am disgusted that it won't be the last. (Humidity and heat, and we just can't do anything about our dog bowl full of fresh water. Lovely.)

Fry grabs my arm with his paws and licks my hand. I remember how he spent the entire evening prowling, saddened and confused as to why we took his new friend/meal away from him.

I hate him for eating bugs. I love him for hunting them down and killing them.

I forgive him. He's so cute. We cuddle.

7 o'clock. It's time for work, but I'm haggard and drowsy. Fry has moved to his dreary-eyed daddy now; Ennis is gone. I pull my computer out from under my night stand and get started, eyes barely open. I hurriedly finish two projects, sending out emails one, two, three, ticking them off my mental check-list, and then place my head back on my pillow.

I'm suddenly mad at Jon for not having prepped coffee the night before. I'm terrible at making it, and he knows it. I roll over again, accepting that without a pot of coffee waiting, there's no reason to get up.

I sleep. I am fanned by a cool manufactured breeze. I need much, much more time.

9 o'clock. I am forcing myself awake.

It's Jonathan's first day of school. I kiss him good morning. I ask if he'd like me to take a picture of him with his fancy, graduate school book bag. He says maybe later.

I tell him to make me coffee, since he knows I'm awful at it. Turns out, he did prep it the night before. I count my blessings, congratulate him on being a jerk, and begin my day.

I think it's going to be a beautiful day.


*Image: Morning Light on Bed by photographer Valeria Heine

The Walk

For Dad.

Sorry. The video cut out. And apologies for my horrible appearance. It was 9am and my coffee spilled.

Love you!