17. Whats in a Name? Whats in the Box?

For all the complications surrounding our situation, our son’s entrance into the world that summer was smooth and without incident.

The baby we’d been preparing for, however futile, who’s health we’d prayed for and for whom was the only reason either one of us was still around at this point, was finally here. And he was perfect. Alert, happy and absolutely awe inspiring, I’d thought this little life would be able to change everything. But sitting eight days post partum in the middle of a heat wave, wedged between BD and his parents on one side of me, my mother and sisters on the other, it was apparent this was a family that would never mesh.

BD had wanted a naming ceremony since we’d first learned about my pregnancy. He’d insisted, we wouldn’t decide on a name for the baby until he was born and we’d had an opportunity to meet him. Then, on the eighth day, we’d announce the baby’s name to family and friends after first whispering it into the child’s ear because you should be the first to know who you are. It’s a beautiful custom. I was kinda taken by the naming ceremony scene in Roots anyway (remember that?) When he took his brand new baby out into the woods, lifted him into the air and announced to his son, “Behold, the only thing greater than yourself,” as he introduced him to God. So I was on board with the whole waiting eight days thing. I thought it would be nice.

Of course, now, as we sit scrunched together in our living room with our families, laboring to breathe in the heavy humidity, it is absolutely not nice. And the week leading up to this date hadn’t been so agreeable either.

I’d wanted to name our baby after my father, who though black, happens to, like most of us, have a European name. BD hit the roof at the first mention of this a few months before. I told him we could still have the ceremony, it would just be understood that one of his names would be my dad’s. I didn’t even care if it was buried at the bottom right before the last name, which would also be BD’s. The idea of his son having what he perceived as a white man’s name had enraged him. He threw over a small table in his tantrum. Shaken, I dropped the subject, but I did go about rubbing my belly and speaking softly to my baby, calling him by name. More anger. I was being directed how to speak to my unborn child.

For a full 48 hours before the naming ceremony, we’d completely stopped talking, unable to agree upon a name. We’d both chosen a few, then chosen from that pool, then attempted to whittle that down. The stalemate for me was when after getting down to eight names, BD refused to skim any more.

“These are our son’s names. There’s nothing more important than that. A name is supposed to speak for your past and your destiny. The wrong name can curse you ... “

I’d heard the rhetoric for the past nine months and I was so over it. There’s no way I was sending my kid to kindergarten with eight names. Fortunately, with our families lingering in every corner of the apartment (they had to spread out over a few rooms or sit nose-to-nose in one) this argument couldn’t escalate the way it might have, less their presence. I was grateful. We slept in separate beds that night and the last, and had still not reached an agreement we were both happy with when it was time for BD to make the announcement.

My anger boiled in my stomach as he read off each of eight names he’d scrawled on a little sheet of paper. My family looked at me mouths agape, trying to be supportive but unprepared to hide their surprise.

“That’s quite a name,” my mother had said. What else could she say? Madness is what it was.

We said a prayer, completed the ceremony and I was just thankful when he finally loaded his people up in the car to drive them back to New York.

“I’m tryin to order a pizza, pepperoni and sausage,” I said aloud, reaching for the phone book.

“Hey Mel, there’s a package out here,” BD said sticking his head back in the door from the hallway. Damn. Thought he was gone.

He kicked the medium size box in and left.

I put the baby to sleep and I did get my pizza and it was good. The fam got a good laugh at my expense, though.

“Sneakin food like you got a damn eating disorder. What kinda shyt is that?” The little one had said, half in jest, half with disdain.

My mother had been more empathetic, but her tone was urgent.

“Mel, if you’re not happy here, you shouldn’t stay here. And the longer you stay, the harder it will be to leave and the angrier BD will be when you finally do leave.”

“Whadyou mean, when I finally do leave? He’s my son’s father?” I responded.

“Melyssa,” she said flatly, looking around and picking up and dropping the pizza box on the table to illustrate her point. “I Know you don’t plan on living like this forever. The longer you wait, the worse off you’ll be.”

Sidebar: Kids, listen to your mom.

BD stayed the night with his parents that night, thankfully but I didn’t get any sleep anyway.

I was staring up at the ceiling for most of the night, when my eyes dropped and fell on the package in the corner. Swine on my mind earlier, I'd forgotten about it. I leapt out of bed and crossed the room with a pair of scissors off the dresser. No return address? I pulled the box open and foam popcorn spilled all over the floor. Baby gifts. Really, nice, thoughtful baby gifts.

A cute little inflatable ducky tub that really quacks. Adorable. A little fold-out director’s chair with our chld’s last name printed on the back. BD would love that. And the tiniest little onesie with massage points illustrated on it. So cute.

I had an inkling of who they might be from, but searched through the box again before allowing myself to think his name. I’d been keeping myself from thinking his name for months.

There it was, near the bottom of the box, covered by foam. The beautifully engraved white envelope didn't look like a baby card. I pulled out another linen envelope from inside the first. It was a wedding announcement.

Originally posted on March 10, 2008