Baby Names

A few weeks before Val was born my dad finalized his 70s music playlist for my husband (who sadly missed out on the golden era of Americana). In Val's first days home from the hospital, Peter had this playlist on repeat (all hours of the day and night, because, newborns). As I nursed my baby and changed his diapers, I heard Jim Croce's "Rapid Roy" on repeat and thought to myself what a devilishly cute little brother Roy could be to Val. That song brought me a lot of pep and joy during those tiring first weeks. 

I wanted to get pregnant again immediately. I wanted Val and his sibling to be close in age and to enjoy the togetherness me and my Irish twin enjoyed. I wanted to have more children while my body and mind had the benefit of all this preparation at the ready. On the last day of 2024, Peter, my mom, and I sat discussing things we would have changed about this past year. Peter and I agreed, we would have wished that Val already had a sibling. 

But of course, God has His own timing. 

When we learned we were pregnant again, I was immediately hopeful it would be another boy. Immediately my mind was on names to make this theoretical baby feel more real. Where did it come from? I can't actually pinpoint the genesis. But I have been obsessed with the name Lee. A baby boy named after his mama. A gender-ambiguous but still fairly manly name like his brother has. Joining the ranks of many prestigious Lees. Lee Pace, Lee Strobel, Lee Corso, Lee . . . Harvey Oswald? Robert E. Lee? Well, okay. 

 

Unlike Valor, it doesn't mean anything particularly noble. This was always my sadness with my own name. Lee in the dictionary means "the sheltered side," which I suppose is nice. In old English, it meant field. Meh. Possibly "plum tree" in Cantonese, Mandarin, and Hokkien. The most common surname in Macau, so no points for originality, either. 

This is how Val came not to be named Bear, despite lobbying for that name the majority of the pregnancy. I found myself explaining out loud to a friend why I wanted to name my child that, despite the clunky animal associations, and I suddenly found (mostly thanks to Cocaine Bear), that those unpleasant associations overpowered my affection. Similarly, I struggle to articulate my affinity for Lee. But the affinity persists! 

Then the other day we were doing some housework and Peter turned on my dad's 70s playlist, leading inevitably to Jim Croce. I rushed to find Peter and exclaimed, "What about Roy?!" Peter just stared at me. "From The Office?" And it is hard to imagine how I could give my son the same name as Pam's boorish fiancé (even though it feels like an homage, since we watch The Office nearly nightly). 

Time will tell how our children come to appreciate our reasoning (or lack thereof) in naming them. I hope we make them proud! 

20 Weeks

It's starting to feel more real! Here we are, more or less halfway to meeting our newest member. Seeing him at the anatomy scan, having his gender confirmed, and also receiving reassurances that he is moving well, measuring well, and sporting a textbook heart rate, all these things were giant gifts. 

Since that appointment, I have been able to feel his little kicks, another reassuring milestone that my little baby is in there! (Although unlike Val, he is presently breech, and I could do without those kicks to my cervix.) I can't wait for Val to feel his brother's movements, but for now it still makes my heart melt when he lifts my shirt up and pats my belly going, "Hiiiii bebe!" 

Val is Peter's mini-me in almost every respect. This is something I have historically enjoyed, but now in my pregnancy perseverations I worry that we are setting up our sons to be Esau and Jacob--one favorite for each partner. Val's toughness, athleticism, problem-solving ability, and interest in how things work are all things I love about Peter, and things I want baby boy #2 to have, too. Where will we be if baby boy #2 turns out to be a neurotic, poetry-loving, homebody like me??? 

It is exciting to day dream about who he will be. How he and Val will be together. How our family will change. Peter and I joke that since Val was such a tolerant travel baby, baby boy #2 will see it fit to put his foot down and call us on these shenanigans. I try to anticipate other ways that he will be different--but how can I do it? Part of the fun is we will just have to wait and see. 

Doing my best to treasure all these little moments and not waste any enjoyment of this little baby's existence. 

I love you, little boy

If the kisses and cuddles and constant "I love you"s are not enough, here is a quasi-public declaration:

I love you so much, little boy. 

When I drop you at daycare and the tears erupt, I daily question why I choose to spend those 8 hours away from you. While I work I am watching you from the sky cam, laughing at your gestures and antics. When I get up from my desk to use the toilet, I imagine you running away from your potty seat. When I return, I see you in my mind's eye stationed at the windowsill watching the trucks in the parking lot. You're on my mind all the time. 

This morning you took your little bowl of kiwi slices and placed it on your baseball tee, gave it a whack with your bat, and sent the pieces flying. You looked to me immediately, searching for a reaction. I hate wasted food, I am not thrilled that throwing food on the ground is your new favorite hobby, but in that moment I felt joy--my baby is trying new things and he wants to see what I think of it. 

It is such a gift to be the witness to all your joy and wonder and silliness and discovery. It is such a fearsome responsibility to be your teacher and your caretaker and your guide. I pray every day for enough gratitude, wisdom, and stewardship to be the mother you deserve. 

I love you so much, little boy. 

Most of the time I love my job. On Friday, I signed off for the weekend with a feeling of great satisfaction. Big progress on three big projects. One of those projects, an automatic stay of removal for a deeply sympathetic case. I worked efficiently, effectively, and purposefully. 

So why, then, signing on again after the long weekend, am I filled with dread? Fear that my motion to reopen will be denied and my sympathetic case deported after all? Fear that I didn't do enough for my other two projects? Sadness at the politically motivated firing of 20 immigration judges, including the chief immigration judge at our local court? 

Many times I cope with the stress of the high stakes of my job by telling myself that I am mostly trying to do damage control from my client's prior bad decisions. The system is unjust, it's true, but with the detained population, there were a few bad choices that brought my clients into the auspices of the system. It doesn't mean they deserve what's happening, but it does mean that they understand, we all understand, it won't be a shock if things don't work out the way that we want. 

I know that's not right. 

And it makes coping even harder when I have a client with no "excuse" to serve as the origin for their unfortunate position, only the bald reality of a unfair, racist, and deeply broken system. 

It is a gift to be in a position to be raging against the machine. To be on the beach throwing to throw starfish back into the ocean. But there are still moments when I want to look away. 

Nothing is Promised

Crying on my couch reading stories of mothers who have lost their children. Nothing is promised. 

Watching the news and seeing world leaders falling and fleeing, reports of UFOs in the sky, natural disasters, unspeakable tragedies. Nothing is promised. 

The gifts we have today might not be there tomorrow. The way we live today might not carry on the next day. We can hope for but not expect a rosy future. 

NOW we must be thankful, NOW we must rejoice, NOW we must serve and love and live, because now is the only moment we really possess (and even then, only for a moment). 

You don't know when the last moment will be, so you have to treasure every moment. May I never stop seeking to have a grateful heart. 

Summer-Lover

Growing up I didn't much care for the summer. I hated being hot, sweaty, and sticky. I was convinced my sweat glands were clinically overactive. I felt self-conscious in warm weather clothes that didn't fit quite right. I saw less of my friends from school. I didn't like the beach. Summer was merely the precursor to the best season of them all: fall.

Now I am realizing I am a summer-lover. Long days full of sunshine. Sarah home visiting. Cheap produce and sticky sweet cherries and blueberries and peaches in season. My husband and my baby's birthdays. Knocking off work early on a Friday. Trips to the beach, which I now enjoy. 

This September was tinged with sadness as the leaves on Bedford Street started to turn yellow and fall. The gory Halloween decorations and scary movie trailers took over public spaces. I lost Peter to endless football (and somehow also baseball??) on the television--something I used to enjoy watching with him, but now it reminded that summer was gone. 

I was thrilled to escape to Rio de Janeiro during October. For a week I had summer back. The shorts and crop tops and sandals that hadn't seen use since August were back in the rotation. I got a tan. The days were still relatively short compared to summer in New England, but we stayed up late eating dinner on a Brazilian schedule. I went to the beach every day. 

Now I am back in Connecticut and the fall foliage is at its peak. It is chilly enough for me to dig out my ankle booties and slouchy tops. There is a smoky crispness in the air. Our first day back, I made Debie Peck's pumpkin chocolate chip muffins, which my mom used to make and freeze every fall. Coming out of the oven, the scent of nutmeg and ginger confirmed that fall is here and I am okay with that. 

A Year of Val

More than ever before in my life, time has flown. The cliches make me cringe, but also I can't stop repeating them because they are so completely true. Val has been on the outside for a year now and I have such mixed feelings on concluding this chapter of his life! My baby! 

Having a toddler--not an infant, but a toddler!--on my hands is surreal. I am not sure I am mentally or emotionally prepared to set and enforce boundaries. Today I went to go lift him out of his highchair, but he was fixated on the buckle and he shrieked and squirmed in protest until I assented and placed him back in the chair for him to continue his buckle examination. (I stood there and watched him and questioned, "Am I being too permissive???") Up until this point I have really only had to love him and keep him alive, but now I have to teach him how to behave. I am worried I am not up for the task! 

The shrieking and protesting when he doesn't get his way is a problem and something we will just have to work through with consistent boundaries, but I confess I am absolutely tickled to see him asserting his sense of self. When he sees us eating with forks, he wants to eat with a fork. When we get into the elevator, he has to press the button. My heart melted when my mom plopped Val on the counter and had him "help" her make a batch of biscuits--he was thrilled to dump the measuring cups and stir the batter. 

The older he gets the more fun he gets. Yesterday I threw a blanket over his head and called out, "Val! Where are you? I don't see you?" He pushed the blankets off and laughed uproariously at this game. He was never big into peekaboo, but apparently he loves hide and seek! Making him laugh is one of my favorite things. Having these moments of fun with him makes my heart feel like it's filling my whole chest. It is that delicious combination of delight and affection. 

Seeing my sisters with their babies does give me a little ache in my heart, remembering when Val was that age and that size. Peter and I compulsively watch videos from the past year. Val wriggling his arms out of his swaddle. Val protesting tummy time. Val waking up from a nap. Val trying blueberries for the first time. I felt nostalgic for newborn Val when Val was 8 months. Now I am nostalgic even for 8-month-old Val! I am thankful for all photos and videos we have--I have thousands and honestly I wish I had more. We can't put time in a bottle. But these images are little bit like that. Like a perfume, a whiff brings me back to that moment. 

An acquaintance of mine lost her daughter to cancer last fall. She was 16 months old. My acquaintance shared openly on social media about the treatment process, prognosis, and grieving, and I followed their story with my heart in my throat. It is a strange thing to ache so much for someone you don't know very well, but I hope sharing in their pain and grief was in a small way a comfort to them. I was blessed by their story, because it is good to remember that tomorrow is not guaranteed. It is good to celebrate often. 

Bodily Function TMI

I have the tiniest bit of boob leaking. Not a big deal at all. Some of the ladies in my due date Facebook group have been stashing colostrum for weeks, lots of other ladies haven't seen a drop. There is a continuum of human experience. 

Still, I found it to be very, very exciting! I did absolutely nothing to make that happen. It happened on its own. My body is doing its own set of preparations while my conscious mind is just out here living my life as normal (or worse, to be honest, my nutrition has a little bit, um, lapsed recently). 

Then I had a few dribbles of fluid down my leg. I mean, could be anything. Pee, vaginal discharge, bath water, or . . . amniotic fluid??? Once the thought had arisen, my conscious mind was playing things out. WHAT IF THIS WAS IT???

On the one hand, I would be so happy to have him in my arms tomorrow. I worry about him in there. I wish there was a portal that I could peek into his space to check on him. Part of me wants him to exit ASAP because I have it in my head that I will worry about him less when he is on the outside--but of course that is a fallacy. I can't keep him alive; God sustains him. 

The other hand, the wiser part of me acknowledges how much easier he is to care for on the inside: no crying, no diapers, no feedings. He deserves the warm, comforting enclosure of his womb for as many more weeks as I can give him. And I am in no hurry for the trial of labor. 

But this is what the leaking and the dribbling taught me--first the dribble. It made me imagine with sincerity, for the first time, that moment when my water actually does break. And I realized I am sooooo not mentally ready. (Well, of course not, I am 34 weeks, after all.) My prevailing emotion was panic. 

Then I remembered the leaking, and it made me realize, my body can do all kinds of things without me. When I read in my birth book that pushing is quite involuntary, I have to suppress the impulse to scoff at that--it can't be true, right? But the leaky nips really reassured me--some things really can happen on their own. 

That is not to say there isn't corruption in our DNA. There is a reason I struggle to trust my body. It has let me down before. In His mercy to humanity, He gave us science and medicine and hospitals, because there is a need for them. But the fallenness of the world does not mean it is good or right or true to assume that my body will wholly stop functioning as it was designed.