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i am a name nerd. it’s true.

if Oscar had been a girl, he would have been Eleanor, nicknamed Nell. or maybe Violet, at least until that Affleck baby came along. or Genevieve…or Maude…or Josephine, Josie for short. or Juliet, or Leila, or Lily, or Stella, or Louisa, or Mathilde, or Clara. or Meredith. or Eliza.

i had a list of options about three looseleaf sheets long.

a boy name, on the other hand, was a challenge. i found out, fairly early into the pregnancy, that this one was indubitably a boy…with Finn, ultrasound had been less clear, waffling back and forth on the gender diagnosis. but Oscar was a known male from week sixteen, and i was distraught. not because i didn’t want this little son… though with white males having the worst prognosis as preemies, i had secretly hoped for a girl this time, a safer bet for survival. but it wasn’t entirely his health that weighed on me as i adjusted to the idea of my coming second son. in naming Finn, i had used up the one male name i’d ever particularly given any thought to, and i was fresh out. would it really be all that unkind to name a boy Eleanor?

i’d always thought i’d have girl babies. when i was four, i decided, with the rock-solid conviction of a kindergartener, that i didn’t like little boys and that i myself would not have any. ever. instead, throughout my childhood, i imagined and named families upon families of girl-children, my projected progeny sketched out on paper as my tastes in names evolved. at eight, i thought Kelsi (with the ‘i’ only, mind you) was the heighth of elegance, and bestowed the handle on two separate, consecutive Barbie dolls. at ten, i had a (thankfully) brief romance with the name Chevelle, which i didn’t realize was already claimed by a car. my junior high infatuation with Boy George led me to the Irish Siobhan, his sister’s name, which i mistakenly but lovingly pronounced Sy-o-ban for years until someone finally enlightened me. the Shuh-von pronunciation, however correct, has never won me to the same extent. but i found other favourites. through all my years of waiting to procreate, i never stopped naming my imaginary daughters. my list was like a hope chest, laid away with care and attention.

and all through this pregnancy with Oscar, then, there was this shameful, unmentionable landmine of jealousy each time someone else had a girl…as if something that were meant to be mine had been given to them. and i was floored by the depth of my envy, the immediacy of it…and embarrassed to tears. i, who had held Finn in my arms and would have given all my skin to get him back, was grieving the fact that my impending second-born was a boy. not unhealthy. not endangered. just…a boy. i was mortified by my own triviality. and stumped, at the same time, about what to name him. i wasn’t sure i could find anything i truly loved. it was like having a pantry full of homemade, family-recipe cat treats for the sweet – and much beloved – little dog that unexpectedly followed one home.

in the end, when Oscar came, the longing for him to be anything other than he is dissolved. i’d hoped it would. and we did find a name we loved, despite our families’ polite – and quite reasonable – misgivings. i thought i was free of the green monster. but this past week, when both Brangelina and a former coworker gave birth to baby girls, the jealousy came flooding back. except with Oscar in my arms, i understood it a little better. it wasn’t the girl babies or the fact of their female genitalia that i envied. it wasn’t even the little dresses, or the eventual gender separations. it was the names. it was the chance to name daughters.

the tears snaking hotly down my face weren’t for Shiloh Nouvel Jolie-Pitt, even if – however hubristic my assumptions – i was sure i could have come up with something better from my list. they were for me, because i wanted to use that damn list. because i’ve been preparing it for a lifetime, and i may never get the chance. because i can never, even if i miraculously spawn female triplets, use all the names i’ve stored up with such care over the last thirty years. and because i want to honour my grandmother by passing on her name…but Eleanor really just doesn’t go on a boy. all these things.

maybe a rose by any old girl’s name wouldn’t smell as sweet as Oscar. i hereby magnanimously forgive the rest of the world their baby girls, and the names they bestow upon them, where they differ from my own particular tastes. :)

maybe i’ll just name the next cat after my grandmother. she’d be alright with that.

ah, Tomkitten…you’re here.

and Brooke Shields’ baby girl arrived on the same day…amusing confluence of the stars, given the very public and ridiculous condemnation ol’ Tom sent Brooke’s way last year when she revealed her struggles with post-partum depression after baby #1. i hear dads can get PPD…i envision women all over the celebrity-saturated world grinning with glee at the image of Tom cowering in a corner, covered with spitup, hiding from the unending wails of his new offspring.

catty, true. and Tom probably has twelve nannies, plus Katie, to shield him from the less delightful moments of parenthood. that and his loins are girded with the armour of Scientology…so perhaps he doesn’t notice the wailing. perhaps the baby, after the much-reported and more-maligned “silent birth,” won’t even cry. sigh.

truth is, i live rather in fear of PPD. i don’t expect it, per se, and i certainly don’t want it, but what i read suggests risk, given the loss of my first and the complications of this pregnancy. i do give credit to the power of positive thinking and all that cheery jazz – and i’m loading up on nice omega 3 supplements to bolster all my happy hormones – but i can’t quite summon the hubris to believe with certainty that i’ll be spared. pregnancy has taught me a great deal of humility about what i do and do not control. so instead i sit here hoping, shamelessly, that it’s Tom who suffers the slump and not me. me, i’ll have diapers to wash.

considerate of celebrities to offer themselves up on the altars of our plebian pettinesses, really. not to mention the distraction they provide from the tedium of waiting in grocery queues – i secretly choose the longest line so i can brush up on the latest irrelevant gossip in magazines i’m too snotty – or cheap – to actually buy . a small, sick little part of me even feels an odd pride in (reportedly) sharing my due date with Angelina Jolie, as though her glamour-mama image somehow rubs off on my distended, slipper-wearing self by virtue of the calendar. perhaps i should get a big ol’ tshirt emblazoned with “May 18th” and troll about the supermarkets pouting my lips out, hoping that other junkies of celebrity-baby trash will make the connection and venerate me accordingly. or perhaps i should just hightail me to a psychiatrist, well in advance of any PPD, and get my head checked out.

those with an opinion on the matter are cordially invited to share their two cents during tonight’s very first cribcast – instructions for listening and for joining the chat are on the top right sidebar.

bring patience – i’m new at this. :)