Me: “What, are you crazy?”
Lillian: “Yes, mama.”
And crazy has to come from somewhere, doesn’t it? I have spent the last several days agonizing over my NFP charts trying to discover the state of my fertility. I have tracked every variance in my waking temperature, parsed out the vagaries of cervical mucus and peered through the tiny lens of my ferning microscope. I have consulted oracles, observed the phases of the moon and read the conglomeration of tea leaves in the bottom of my tea cup. Okay, not that last part. But my midwife has told me that I have a good chance at VBAC if I wait at least 18 months to get pregnant and I am determined, by the grace of God, to follow her advice.
Nevertheless, I have also spent the last few days concocting complicated names comprised of layers of meaning (much like a fine baklava) for future children. Because that’s what happens when you leave an English major librarian type in charge of creating permanent labels for people. And because ultimately, babies are always good even if they arrive outside my narrow and small-minded plans. And because I am a crazy person. So I said.
My boy name at the moment is Gilbert Keith. Gilbert because of Gilbert Blythe (be still, my literary heart), and Keith because it’s my father’s name. When the two combine, some magic happens and you conjure Gilbert Keith Chesterton, famed brilliant Catholic-convert essayist.
Girl name? Audrey Therese. Because Audrey is beautiful and because St. Therese is my own dear confirmation saint. Of course this is not nearly complicated enough to pass my crazy, self-important naming criteria.