Ethan Aaron was going to be the name of my first-born son.
I told my now-husband this piece of information way too early in our relationship. But I felt it important to let him know that this was non-negotiable; it was simply going to be. I allowed him, however, some input into what our first-born daughter would be called. From the day I found out I was pregnant, I emailed name options. Names I loved, names that meant so much to me, names I wanted to use for a wee little lady.
India. Scout. Aubrey. Lyla. Kaia. Olive.
I would get
NO!!!
absolutely not,
over my dead body,
no way in hell,
I don’t care how much you love Franny and Zooey, no daughter of mine is going to be Franny and don’t even think about naming our son Zooey
in response.
Our baby was born and we settled on the ONE name we both agreed on. And that was that. She became Emily Elizabeth. After Emily Elizabeth Dickinson. After Emily Bronte. After my Bubbie Betty. It was perfect.
I pocketed all of my perfect names for a rainy day, or, you know, another baby. A boy, we know, would be Ethan Aaron. A girl, we decided finally, would be Abigail. Until two weeks before I gave birth. A friend guessing my secret name choice made me rethink my decision to use Ethan.
“What do you think of Joshua?”
“Um. I don’t know. What should I think of it? Is this a trick question?”
“I mean…if, you know, the baby is a boy? We have to change the name now that everyone knows the name we chose.”
“Okay? Wait…that’s just weird.”
“Trust me. We can’t use Ethan anymore.”
“You are crazy.”
“I am also 8 months pregnant and the size of a small mack truck.”
“Joshua it is.”
And that was that. Our baby was indeed born a little lad and became Joshua Aaron (or Aaron Joshua, depending on which parent you ask) (and depending on whether or not you look at his birth certificate). After my Zayde Aaron. It was perfect.
The third time around, we decided that after having the delivery room girl surprise and the delivery room boy surprise that we would like to take a stab at the ultrasound room surprise.
“It’s a boy?” I asked the technician, certain that all of a sudden I was a master ultrasound technician and knew what I was looking at, even though all I saw was alien.
“I don’t think so,” she said.
“It’s Isabella,” I said.
“It is.”
And that was that. She was born and she became Isabella Rose. After my Grandpa Lou. It’s a bit of a stretch how we got to her name from Lou, but I assure you, it’s highly technical and involves Hebrew names and you are just going to have to trust me on this one.
We are done having children. And yet, those names.
India. Scout. Aubrey. Lyla. Kaia. Olive. Hayley.
Declan. Finn. Nathan. Owen. Jonah. Cooper.
The ones I wanted to use. The ones I still want to use. The ones I’ll never use.
I almost want to get pregnant just to be able to name a baby.
ALMOST.
31