The Book of Names

A quick heads up that this book contains themes of loss (pregnancy and spouse/partner). Other than that, it's a pretty happy story. :)

Thanks for reading!

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I remember my baby book said that you were the size of a grapefruit that week, tucked up somewhere in my womb. That day, while you and I meandered around the local library in search of books to advise me on how to manage the sudden onset of back pain I was feeling, I stumbled upon a book. It had fallen from its place on a shelf and had landed, rather ungracefully, open and spine-side up. I thought about walking away, but it niggled at me, the thought of leaving it there to bend and contort. I wasn’t very big at this point, but I squatted down like I was carrying a ten-pound baby, for the sharp pains in my back were flaring up. It was a book on baby names and looked as though it had seen a lot of love in its years on the shelf. The corners were bent and the plastic the library had put on to protect it was smudged with fingerprints. It was open to the girls’ names, one of the pages for “B” names specifically. Someone had doodled on the page beside what would become your name. A child’s doodle, I guessed; it just had that juvenile look to it with its disproportionate lines and curves. I touched it and I knew.

It was for you.

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I was hesitant to grow attached to you, ironic as it may seem, given that I was your life source and you were expanding inside me, shooting out from your roots. I’d been down this road twice before. The first time, I lost the baby at 13 weeks. I didn’t name them, but have always thought of them as Nova, a star whose light burned out too soon. The second time around, he was born with the cord wrapped around his delicate neck. We’d lost his heartbeat sometime before that and I felt like I, in turn, lost my will to live. We were going to name him Leo after his paternal great-grandfather. I worried that my partner and his family would be disappointed that I’d kept the name, engraved forever onto the gravestone. But they were mostly quiet in the weeks, months, and years that followed. Eventually, the silence became deafening. My partner and I couldn’t ignore how, whenever we gazed upon one another, we saw those two babies, spirits somewhere far beyond this earth. He left shortly thereafter and I was alone.

I hope this doesn’t sadden you too much. I want you to know how you came to be. How from hurt and suffering, you came to set my soul alight.

By the time you read this - maybe you’ll be in your late teens, ready to know the story - you’ll know that your father died before you were born. There was a car accident shortly after we made you. He was a kind man. He was happy; jovial, if you will. He had one of those laughs you wanted to immerse yourself in, body and soul, because nothing could be wrong wrapped up in a sound so right. Just the other day, you giggled and I swear I could feel his spirit with me in that room. Somewhere in your being, he lives.

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After I saw the name, it was as though I knew you intimately. It was like someone was giving me permission to feel, hope, dream. I felt you shift. A slight, nearly imperceptible movement, but you were indeed moving. It wasn’t as though I hadn’t felt you move in the weeks before that, but this was different. I like to think you were telling me, I’m here. Don’t be afraid.

So I inhaled that strength you gave me and exhaled the fear. 

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As you grew, I bought the fruits and veggies that the book compared your size to. Not to eat, but to simply marvel at. 

A head of kale. My belly began to look so much bigger that week.

Butternut squash. This may be TMI, but the constipation was REAL.

Honeydew melon. You were pressing hard on my bladder. I felt like I had to pee every few minutes.

Stalk of rhubarb. You thought you were really funny, didn’t you? Teasing me with those Braxton-Hicks contractions.

I was terrified when you slept. I wanted you in constant motion. I wanted you to pull all-nighters and kick me when you wanted some attention. On a particularly slow day for you, I stood in the kitchen and cried over a plate of grilled cheese and tomato soup, scared out of my mind, when suddenly - KICK! I knocked that soup onto the floor and the ceramic bowl shattered. I was so elated that I began shouting, Goooooallll! The neighbor’s beagle howled along with me. Damn the bowl. Damn the soup. You were alive and well and everything was alright in the world.

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Mom - your grandmother - took me to the hospital when the contractions started getting closer and closer together. She and I hadn’t always been chummy like we are now, like I hope we’ll still be when you read this. She had me young; she was just shy of 19 and so, so very immature (her words, not mine). My father wasn’t in the picture and I’m told he had no interest in the idea of being a father. He died of an overdose before I even knew he existed or even understood what it meant to have a father, to be fathered, to make a human life. It’s my greatest wish that if you find yourself on your way to becoming a mother, that you’ll have a partner, someone you love and trust by your side. 

Don’t worry - I won’t share the gory bits with you. Honestly, it was a very smooth birth. I wondered if the universe was sending me its apologies for the way things happened with Leo. I wasn’t quite ready to forgive just yet, but I was grateful for the fact that you made your grand entrance in under three hours instead of the grueling 22 I’d pushed through before.

Your grandmother was there in the room and when we heard your cry, we both delighted in the sound. We sought out one another with hands and eyes, grasping, reaching for the familiarity of mother and daughter while your cries echoed off the walls. You were loud. You wanted me and I needed you.

They placed you on my chest and you sunk into me with all of your weight. And then you quieted. You knew it was me, didn’t you? I marveled at that for days afterward. The shriek of your cries as you came into the world followed by the instantaneous comfort you felt on my skin. Our smells mixed together and I’m not sure whether it was the euphoria brought on by the oxytocin, but at some point I wasn’t sure where I ended and you began. We were one. We were always one.

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It’s 7 a.m. as I write this. I’ve got my mug of coffee and I’m sitting in the rocking chair in your room, watching the sun peek out over the horizon. You have the best views from your room. It’s my favorite place in our home. 

You’re still asleep and you don’t know that one year ago today, I was a terrified, already single mother who was trying not to know you. Out of fear that you’d leave, too.

Yesterday I checked out that same book of names from the library. I want to show you the doodle of the bird next to your name. Even though I say it all the time, I want to show you your name, the drawing, the book that brought you to life. You’ll smile and laugh like you always do when you see me in the morning. 

You’ll hold my attention and captivate me in a way that only you can do.

My sweet Birdie.