What's In a Name?

My husband and I decided early in my pregnancy that we wanted to find out the gender as soon as possible - it would help with planning and preparation and, in a funny sort of way, we thought it would help us to get to "know" our baby a little better. When I was twenty weeks along, the ultrasound tech pronounced us proud expectant parents of a baby boy. You can imagine my surprise when, a short months of pregnancy and a few long hours of labor later, the doctor held my beautiful child in the air. The first thing I thought when I saw my brand-new little baby was, "Oh my God, he has no penis!" It took a few moments for me to wrap my mind around the fact that it was not a birth defect but a mere case of human error - my son was perfect, he was just a she.

The hospital I delivered in allowed only two people in the room for birth - one per leg, it turned out. My husband, sister, and mother worked in alternating shifts through the night, keeping me comfortable and sane as we waited for the big moment. My mom opted out of watching the actual delivery - she had been there, done that twice before and had no interest in doing it again. She was sitting on the couch in the waiting room when my sister rushed in to tell her - It's a Girl! A sick sense of humor is a recessive gene that runs in our family and my mom claims she didn't believe her until she laid eyes on her granddaughter. Her granddaughter named Margaret.

The nurse was holding her when my mother walked in. "Here's Grandma!" she whispered to my daughter. The nurse looked up at my mother and smiled, "Meet Margaret." And my mother cried.

We aren't a particularly emotional family, my mother especially. Our hugs are short and end with an awkward pat. I love you's often go unanswered, if they are said at all. We show our devotion with sarcasm, rides to the airport, and well-intentioned but often useless Christmas gifts. My sister and I cannot make eye contact when we're discussing emotional things and the conversations always end with a, "Let's never speak of this again." I get itchy thinking about watching people cry. Feelings are private. Emotions are to be kept in. We are the WASPY-est bunch of Irish-Catholics I know - and that's the way I like it.

But my mom's name is Margaret. Her mother's name was Margaret. My sister's middle name is Margaret. My name means Margaret in Gaelic. And although I would never say it, at least not to her face, my mother is the most important thing in the world to me. She raised my sister and me on her own, in every way you can imagine, but we lacked nothing. She attended every soccer practice, not to mention game, chaperoned Girl Scout camping trips (picture Troop Beverly Hills with a brunette, chubby Shelly Long), and never spoke badly about our father, who broke her heart and her home. My mom is super rad and killer awesome in a way no sixty year old has any right to be. She's a sassy school teacher with cropped pants and ballet flats whose social life is more packed then mine. She is an active and avid volunteer in her church who counts among her friends a Madonna loving priest and a hard nosed former financial executive. My mom knows everything about everything, is never wrong and seldom mistaken, and has a knick knack stashed away for every occasion. She is everything I aspire to be as a person and a parent and I love her with all my heart. I say it here because we don't talk about things like that in my house. My mom would roll her eyes or change the subject, get uncomfortable and leave the room.

So I gave my daughter her name. It was my way of saying without words - Mom, I love, respect, and admire you. And, through my daughter, I hope to honor you. But don't ever let me catch you crying again, woman. Really.