Three days ago Minnie and I learned that she is pregnant. The reality of this situation is only now just beginning (at times) to become clear to me. Frankly, I had resigned myself to the likelihood that I would never be the father of a child that was biologically my own. I assumed that if Minnie and I were to ever raise a child that it would be one that was connected to us only by love and proximity, not by blood.
As you can imagine we are very excited about the whole thing. I caught myself calling Minnie "mama" yesterday, to which she responded to me with "papa" and a kiss. Today I learned that our baby is about the size of a sesame seed, looks more like a tiny tadpole than a human being, and that its brain is beginning to grow. Honestly, I forget at times that Minnie is pregnant, or at least my mind has not yet fully integrated this notion into my constant reality. When I read or hear little tidbits of information about the baby a heavy wave a reality passes over me, a deeply emotional wave that steadily pulls me under and holds me in a solemn place of awe and joy. It is at times like this that I feel a strong sense of urgency to not only know the sex of our child but to give it a name as well. Calling our child "baby" is simply not respective enough of this singularly unique human being that has already centered itself in our hearts and thoughts.
I remember being at the cemetery in Osage a couple of months ago for the funeral of Minnie's great uncle Joe. After the ceremony I wandered a bit in the graveyard reading headstones. I was particularly struck by the marker for Oscar Bland, an infant who had apparently died after only a month on this earth. I remember thinking at the time that it would be a good thing to name our child Oscar in honor of this little boy who never really had a chance to experience this world.
As you can imagine we are very excited about the whole thing. I caught myself calling Minnie "mama" yesterday, to which she responded to me with "papa" and a kiss. Today I learned that our baby is about the size of a sesame seed, looks more like a tiny tadpole than a human being, and that its brain is beginning to grow. Honestly, I forget at times that Minnie is pregnant, or at least my mind has not yet fully integrated this notion into my constant reality. When I read or hear little tidbits of information about the baby a heavy wave a reality passes over me, a deeply emotional wave that steadily pulls me under and holds me in a solemn place of awe and joy. It is at times like this that I feel a strong sense of urgency to not only know the sex of our child but to give it a name as well. Calling our child "baby" is simply not respective enough of this singularly unique human being that has already centered itself in our hearts and thoughts.
I remember being at the cemetery in Osage a couple of months ago for the funeral of Minnie's great uncle Joe. After the ceremony I wandered a bit in the graveyard reading headstones. I was particularly struck by the marker for Oscar Bland, an infant who had apparently died after only a month on this earth. I remember thinking at the time that it would be a good thing to name our child Oscar in honor of this little boy who never really had a chance to experience this world.
While I do not know what name we will ultimately decide upon for this child, I do know that for me naming our child is a serious responsibility that can not be taken lightly. I know that whatever name we settle on will be one that has meaning, one that connects our child in some way with our ancestors, one that our child can carry through his or her life with a sense of pride, confident in the knowledge that he or she comes from a family with a long lineage of remembered people, both good and bad, strong and weak, smart and dumb, handsome and ugly.
