on the problems associated with naming babies...

when i was pregnant with biscuit i was in denial, read previous post. i thought that being pregnant was a very slight possibility (in fact, i told the doctor that it was a 2% chance... i never was really good with math) but it wasn't anything that i wanted to verify in order to meet, face to face, a consequence of an action... a simple, one time, thirty second action.

at any rate, one morning i awoke in my mom's bed, as i had taken to sleeping with her again. she was at work and the sun made its way into bed with me, warming me and waking me. and as my eyes opened my first thoughts were of what would become my daughter's name... eva siobhan... eva, pronounced ay-vah, which in hebrew means "mother/giver of life", or simply, "life" (as opposed to ava, which in latin means "bird"... big difference, and yet, still uplifting) siobhan, pronounced shih-VON, a celtic word for "god is gracious".

i thought... well, if i am pregnant, and it is to be a girl... that will be her name.

yet, it didn't prompt me to quickly test my hypothesis. no, i waited a bit longer... until i thought that something more serious was wrong with me.

thankfully, i didn't have to discuss the name. i was in it wholeheartedly and wasn't about to share that responsibility with someone who wasn't. however, i made every effort to be inclusive of said someone. i even went to see him. i remember one particular time i had on a maroon shirt, definitely not maternity, lined with pink piping. it was beautiful and flattering, especially on a pregnant belly. i had on a mid-calf-length corduroy khaki skirt, with scalloped edges, and beneath that, pink tights to match the piping on the shirt (what fashion does to memory, or memory to fashion).

i sat on a bench in the vestibule of the place where he works... where i quit months before with the notion that, prior to concluding positive pregnancy, the stress was making me physically ill. (try explaining a disappearance like that to someone who doesn't speak your language. what is left but to assume that it was done on purpose, malicious avoidance?) back on the bench i notice a tattoo on the outside of one of his arms. black letters. i wouldn't have ever noticed it before, we didn't know each other that well. i asked what it was. his response, in broken english: his mother's initials, m for maria, e for eva (at which point, light shot from my finger tips, i could feel it), and r for her newly married last name, not the same as his.

i knew then that my baby, that biscuit, was my baby girl. and that she had already been given a name, not by me, that would represent who she was, is, and will be. it would include where she came from and what joy there is in why she was made. for she was the giver of life for me. she opened doors, and still does, to the ways in which God is ever so gracious, ever so merciful, loving, kind, and giving.

so, when she was born, there were no questions, that was just who she was. praise god.

and now, with this little one... i've had nothing similar in visionary naming. no dreams, no voices, no light... no glimpse as to the gender. nothing stands out... and, to top it off, i have to actually concur with someone this time. it isn't my way or nothing at all. and, truth be told, it should be the mister's way, regardless of whether or not i agree. however, i take into account meanings, and connotations, and then there is nothing left to see eye to eye on, except that we'll know when we know... even if it means that the baby will be five days old.