Dud Sea Scrawls The Writing, clearly, is not on the wall!

“Song” is what I will call my first daughter. It is, I decided as I washed my hair this morning, just ridiculous enough for me to feel like I created something (this forgettable word for this particular usage) and that it would be foreign enough to make my child not just another “Pam” or “Sue”. Foreign in that people in other parts of the world are always naming their children things that are plain old nouns, but ascribed to a human being seem incredibly significant and descriptive. Even though those names can’t possibly be descriptive in any way since a child’s personality is…not nonexistent…but at least it has yet to be revealed when most names are bestowed before or just after birth. But these parents have tried, haven’t they? You hear all these wonderful explanations for why people come up with hippyish names for their children (read: ones more meaningful than “James”). Even if the story behind the name is obviously a shit story and you can tell that they just wanted to be different, at least they tried. That said, I always think that those children’s parents care more about them, in the very beginning, than people who name their children things like “Samuel” or “Jennifer”. I don’t care if for my entire life I have loved the sound of “Nicole” (and I have) I would never, ever call my daughter something that would make her indistinguishable from 350, 000 other women in this country and Europe and Africa, etc., all living, all with parents who just liked the sound of a name that, literally, exists everywhere in nature.

It makes no sense that someone like me even cares about naming children. I don’t even want any children. For the most part. I go back and forth–which is sort of like going forward, because at least now I am more open to the possibility of being a mother. But possibility isn’t the same as certainty. To have one’s own children when there are enough children in the world without parents who need homes seems irresponsible and selfish–a silly self-indulgence, a vanity project. And I’m right back to where I started, except that my excuses are more compassionate, thoughtful and aware than they used to be. Still–the fact remains that I, mostly, don’t want children. I mean I do, but…well. I may never convince myself that it is in anyone’s (especially the child’s) best interests that I make a baby.

And yet I am always collecting names for my would-be children. I don’t ever just say of a name, “Oh, that would be a nice name,” no. The context is always, always that this or that name would be a good one for my daughters and my sons. I think it is that women are taught very early that this should be one of their priorities. We get dolls and we must name them. No mother walks around with unidentified, uncharacterized children. Women name babies. Girls name dolls so that later we will know how to name babies. I don’t know any men who have naming fixations. And I’m not saying that men don’t name children, they do, or that they don’t name their cars or tools or parts of their wives and girlfriends’ anatomies–they do. But as far as I know, it isn’t quite the same. My mother named me. My father named my little sister. I am marked, history-marked, doomed to be who I was before–those I am named after. My sister is not. My first name is a feminization of my father’s nickname. My middle name is my great grandmother’s name. Both incredibly meaningful to my mother. She took it seriously–she considered my humanity as she decided, what I might actually be like. My father, on the other hand, opened up a baby’s name book and chose two which are rather pretty. Neither of them, really, fits my beast of a sister. But I have always envied her freedom to just be herself. She doesn’t have to wonder who it is that will come out of her in any given situation. She’s much more consistent, more sure of herself in that respect. You see? There, too, I have plans to appropriate her middle name and give it to one of my own daughters. I want a daughter with my sister’s strengths. Inevitably, she will be my sister’s favorite niece. They will keep secrets from the rest of us. My daughter will have a mean streak. She may care a great deal for her appearance, buying far more clothes and pairs of shoes than any human being ever needed. And she will never, ever give you a bite or a sip. No matter. Because if her older, much more sensitive sister cries in the middle of the night, she will creep into her bed and hold her tightly. If an older boy makes fun of that same older sister, my sister’s namesake will punch him in the mouth and dare him to ever make a similar evil utterance at any girl on the block again. And though she will cry for presents on everyone else’s birthdays, these other moments will be what people write down in books about her.

I am good at naming. You didn’t ask, but I will tell you, nonetheless. “Song” is what makes me feel alive. This isn’t to be confused with music, it is “Song” in particular I love because of the lyrics–the words. And “Song” can have unfathomable, indescribable beauty. “Song” makes you cry, makes you laugh, makes you stand up and fight, connects you to people you would never have any other way to connect to…”Song” is mama’s gift. Mama being me. I sing all day and all night. And that is my gift from god. “Song” is my gift from god. And nipping at her heals, my next child, to be called “Story,” is mama’s refuge.