You Name the Babies, I'll Name the Dogs

There’s a country song with one particular lyric that goes “you name the babies, I’ll name the dogs”. I’m just enough of a control freak that I’m not comfortable with him doing either. 

Unfortunately, my husband is as well. 

Although, surprisingly we agreed on the dog’s name rather easily. 

Naming the babies is hard. 

When you’re dreaming of the kids you’ll someday have, most people have a “favorite”, especially for girls. Like, “Penelope Jane” or “Genevieve Louise” or “Rowan Elizabeth”—something very elegant and chic, right? None of those were our favorites but they sound like the sort of nostalgic fluff a preteen girl would dream of. The boys are a little harder, at least in my experience. Some stick with the classics, like Henry Matthew, and others are a little more non-traditional, like Jagger Scout. Sort of a “what’s your pleasure”, toss up. 

Brad and I were never on the same page, as far as general likes, but for our first and second we did manage to sync up (for the most part) before the arrival and were really agreeable. Uneventfully, we named the babies (none of the above, however). 

Our 4th was a hot mess from day one. We couldn’t agree on anything. He didn’t really have a standout favorite and I didn’t really have a standout favorite, but we didn’t like anything the other suggested. Finally, 8 hours after her arrival, we both came to an agreement on one both of us had previously suggested to the other at different times throughout the pregnancy and then also both alternately and subsequently vetoed. We both kind of liked it but it wasn’t a first pick for either of us. In the end it was the closest we could come to an agreement on. 

Now I couldn’t imagine her being anything else. I love it. It’s so her. It’s cute and sassy and edgy and just so perfect. I cringe a little, though, when I think of how sad it is that her parents just “settled” at the time because we couldn’t agree on anything else. That’s par for the course when you’re the 4th.

Baby number 3 was an entirely different story. I had a strong favorite and Brad had a strong favorite. I loved Wilder. It was strong and manly and western. It was perfect. Brad wanted Bobby. 

No. Definitely no. Hard no. Absolutely not. Not happening. 

That’s what he said and that’s what I said. 

The entire pregnancy. 

I said, “Wilder” and he said “Bobby”.

And we both said, “No.”

So it went for 9 months.

On the day he arrived, things were going fairly smoothly, but the monitor started to show occasional decels. Then, his heart rate dropped and everything went south real fast. I barely remember any of it. I was wheeled into the OR within minutes, and was given general anesthesia just as quickly.

Blessedly, baby was perfectly healthy and all was well.

Recovery was full on hazy. Groggy. Fuzzy. 

Maybe because of the anesthesia, or maybe just cause I’m old, I remember very little about the hours (days?) after his birth. But I do remember looking over at Brad at some point during my post-surgical lethargy of anesthesia and him saying, 

“So we’re going with Bobby, then?”

I remember looking at him, trying to process what he said, feeling somewhat confused.

The C-section pain was starting to set in which is a bit of an understatement—I couldn’t press that bolus button fast or often enough, as (that aspect of) the anesthesia was starting to wear off. 

Other CS mommas will tell me that they didn't think it was that bad or they'll say their (subsequent) scheduled CS was much better than their first. 

Cool beans for you.

Mine was torture. 

Or, apparently, I am a grade A weenie. 

Either way.

Searing is the only word I can use to describe it. I distinctly remember sitting there thinking, "This must be what steak feels like, I'm being punished for loving beef". Like my insides were broiling and my incision was being seared (there could have even been a marinade or rub, who knows at that point). It was a white hot pain that just incrementally became more and more critical, intense, heated, to the point that, when coupled with the brain fog of anesthesia, I barely knew my own name, let alone what his should be (I'm not even sure I'd seen him as of yet). 

And so, rather grumpily (and I can only assume pseudo-drunkenly) replied, 

“Name him whatever the *bleating flock of sheep* you want.”

So, Bobby he is.

What trickery.

Begrudgingly, I’ll admit, he is a Bobby. 

He IS Bobby.

If you’ve ever met Bob, you’d definitely think he was a Bobby. You'd nod your head and say, "Ohhhh, yeah, makes sense."

God has a way of working that magic. 

I mean allowing my husband to influence me when I’ve just been sliced stem to stern (my abdomen looked like Frankenstein's head--if you added a couple bolts, it would've been a dead ringer), completely barrel rolled into unconsciousness (was definitely still feeling drugged), and just brought a full (albeit tiny) human into the world seems a little extreme, but who am I to complain about the methods when the outcome is just as it should be.

My husband will always use this instance to further his claim that “he knows best”. 

He doesn’t (always) know best. 

He just has a very gracious, agreeable, and forgiving wife. 

A wife who reminds him of that often. 

Besides, I'm saving 'Wilder' for the next one. 

A girl, even.

Maybe it's better for a girl. 😏😉