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. 

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. 

On nights that I don't sleep well, I wake up with the overwhelming fear that my baby died in the middle of the night. That I slept too long on my back and the restricted blood flow suffocated him. That all of the meds I took all these times I got sick during the pregnancy created a developmental abnormality not detectable on the ultrasounds. Or that it's just a freak tragedy. I woke up on Sunday feeling that way. 

I focused on my womb willing him to move, and while the briefest rustle confirmed he was still in there, it was not robust enough to clear the cobwebs. I was so tired and feeling nauseated from being so tired, Peter questioned whether I felt up for going to church. The entire ride I perseverated over my morbid anxiety--what could I do to get some relief? We arrived a little late, but we were in time to join the congregation in the hymn that closed out the worship set:

'Tis so sweet to trust in Jesus

Just to take Him at His Word

Just to rest upon His promise

Just to know, "Thus saith the Lord"

O for grace to trust Him more

In a rush I felt a release, a comfort, a peace. It's not that God has said to me that my baby will live. We are not promised our earthly preservation, although I think I have permission to expect that! But I felt the anxiety drop away. Because whatever happens, it cannot change who Jesus is and what He has promised. 

The pastor taught on the passage where, after Lot was kidnapped and Abraham rescued him, Abraham gave a tithe to Melchizedek, and how Melchizedek is a Christ figure from the Old Testament. While the exposition was interesting, I wasn't sure how the tithe connected until the very end, when the pastor gently reminded us--every single thing we have is from God and we are freed so that we can give it back to God. 

He is Your baby, God. I feel so responsible, because my body is hosting him for a time and my actions and choices affect him. But my responsibility does not change the prevailing truth that his fate is more in Your hands than in mine. You designed human reproduction. You put the blueprint for growth in his DNA. You placed his soul in his cells and You have already seen his whole life. 

My hands feel more open. My heart is comforted. 

Toughening Up

Last night Peter and I watched a sample birthing class where the instructor taught a hypnobirthing technique for pain management. I am considering a natural birth because of my fear of needles (and forget about needles in my freaking spine!), so I have been watching a lot of birthing stories and reading a lot of blog posts about how to cope with a natural birth. Ironically, what I have found has not inspired a lot of self-confidence. 

On Sunday, Peter and I also attempted a 60 second cold shower on the advice of Dr. Andrew Huberman and I was appalled by how challenging that was for me. I joked before I got in that this would be a coaching tool for natural birth, practicing relaxing through discomfort for the approximate duration of a contraction. I regretted drawing the comparison almost immediately. I finished the 60 seconds feeling demoralized. It was so hard! And that was only cold! Not pain! 

So when our birthing class instructor told us to grab some ice, I knew what was coming. As I squeezed the ice cube in my palm, I did my best to go to Station 18 1/2 at Sullivan's Island beach. I tried to remember dodging the jellyfish as I ran, I tried to remember watching the freight coming in and out of the harbor, I tried to remember sitting in the shallows while it thundered and lightning, I tried to remember hiding my frose in the sand . . . but I couldn't go there. I was sitting on my couch with little stabs of cold shooting up my arm. Meanwhile Peter was on the side of me radiating bliss. "I'm in Hawaii!" 

It's been a while since I have embraced physical discomfort. Marathon training is a well I go back to as I try to hype myself up for what my body can do, but the truth is that it's been months since I've been on a really good run. Even the road race we did last spring was a struggle, not triumphant. The nausea of the first trimester felt intolerable, unbearable--I slept during the day, something I hate doing, just to get some escape from it. I even stopped taking the stairs! (I am back on my stairs-only wagon now, but it is so much harder than it once was!) 

I feel like a weaker, softer version of myself. I don't think of myself as a mentally tough or particularly disciplined person, but I thought I was stronger than this! I thought I could power through the feeling of my body quitting on me, but I remember that it took two marathons, not one, and hours and hours of training to be fit enough to do that, and it was still really, really hard. I used to be able to smell the salt coming off Shem's Creek and the sugar drifting out of the praline shop, but now when I need those memories, they are out of reach and all that is in front of me is the unpleasantness, discomfort, and pain.

And if you are thinking I sound dramatic right now, I would tell you I am not being dramatic enough. If I feel this way now, how am I supposed to handle it when I actually do feel like my insides are being ripped apart??? Feels like it might be more realistic to mentally train to cope with an epidural than mentally train to cope with a natural labor. 

The one thing that comforts me: I still have time to prepare. I have time to prepare my body physically with walking, and stairs, and strength training, and endurance training, and raspberry leaf tea. I have time to prepare my mind to focus on the beach instead of the contractions. I can learn all the Lamaze breaths and the other hypnobirthing strategies and maybe even successfully meditate. I think I have a lot of cold showers ahead of me. (Today I cheated and only put my legs and arms in, and it STILL hurt!) 

I tell myself this decision is about my fear of needles, but I think it is also about my desire to challenge myself, to feel accomplished. Of course, I think I will feel accomplished whichever way this baby gets out of me. I already feel accomplished. Hayley 10 years ago thought she would never be able to tolerate the discomfort and indignities of hosting a person inside her body. Yet here I am. And Hayley of 10 years ago is still with me in this ethos of chose the hard thing.