Ina/Murphy

So you may have noticed I haven’t posted in a while.

Impending motherhood has done something to me.  Actually, it’s done quite a few things to me.  For example, when hurriedly dressing for today’s ultrasound, I was forced to squash down my dejection at having to grab linen pants from the “fat” box.  (This is the box of clothing that Shelly Belly created for me because even though it was “too big, it’s too nice to give or throw away.”  I was hoping it would sit in the corner forever as a monument to chubbier times.)  For the first few weeks post-less, I was literally too exhausted to sit at the computer and complete a thought worth sharing.  And even though I haven’t begun cleaning–the Zoo is still much like a barnyard–I can honestly say I’ve THOUGHT a lot about cleaning, which has never happened before.

But if I’m honest with you, Reader, I will tell you that my lack of productivity on the blog has more to do with the spirit of the life inside me.  I’ve never really given a rat’s ass what people thought of me or my life decisions, and that remains true.  Still, somehow, this tiny person I’ve never met has turned my apathy on its ear as it somersaults in my belly.  I’ve realized there is one person in this universe whose opinion not only matters, but is now the only thing that matters.

Anyone born after 1970 has figured out that whatever happens on the internet, stays on the internet.  Like, forever.  You can’t erase it, not really, and anyone with a websurfing device and half a wit can retrieve it.  This kid is, with its perfect genetic blend of me and BabyDaddy, bound to be some kind of genius, which qualifies it to be in that category of the witted.  Whatever I say here can be read by my tot, consumed and perceived and even regurgitated to torture and judge and slay me.  For the first time, I am terrified of my own words.

For the first few months, the baby seemed to me a mythical creature…a theory, a fantasy, an idea more than a human being.  Even when I heard the heartbeat for the first time, it remained a reality distant from me and from the world where I live.  But somewhere inside I knew that someday it would be a person, a person who could read and write and form opinions and fantasies of its own.  It freaked me out.  I’ve never been cool with talking about unborn children, not in any context; so what could I say about my own unborn child that would not be used against me later in life?

The relationship between me and BabyDaddy is a tenuous and tumultuous one, fraught with my usual drama and occasional chaos.  We are all kinds of incompatible.  Two loners brought together by an understanding friendship, a little loneliness, and an intellectual fascination with one another, we made a baby very quickly and have slowly worked are slowly working our way through trying to deal with it.  It is difficult and consuming work, and many days we wonder whether or not it is worth the effort.

He’s obsessed with technology; I prefer the old-fashioned.  He hides from people to whom he owes money and can’t get a loan to buy a cheeseburger; I wear my outstanding credit like a merit badge.  He does drugs and boozes and revels in his partying past; I am a square who’d never seen actual marijuana until his sister unwittingly lit a pipe in front of me…and I didn’t even know what it was.  He doesn’t believe in cars; I dream of nothing but the perfect road trip.  He is a hardcore atheist and scientist and a chest-beating survivalist; I cherish my memories of church and still seek some kind of spiritual connection to the universe around me…as long as I can stay in a nice hotel.  We are a match made in hell.  And this baby is equal parts him and me.

The only thing on which we agreed, before we even knew this baby existed, was what to name our children.  If we had a boy, his name would be Murphy Dean, after BabyDaddy’s mother’s family name, and my beloved late uncle.  A strong Irish name for our little potato head!  And if it were a girl, her name would be Ina Frances/Adele/Rosemary/Elaine/Something, after my great aunt and…someone else.  (This one was a bit tougher.)  The  minute we knew there was an actual baby in there, we began referring to her/him as Ina/Murphy.

I thought often of whether this might be a girl or a boy, and the implications of each.  I was shocked by the number of people who said to me, “You want a boy.  Boys are easy,” as though growing a Good Man somehow requires no instruction manual or extra effort.  (Is this why the world is full of assholes?)  And when most people talk about little girls, they say things like, “They’re cute at first, but then they turn moody and come home pregnant.”  Well I certainly was/am a moody girl and tortured the hell out of my parents, to be certain–and Brooke, I’ll never live down staying out until the wee morning hours in a thunderstorm–but I sure as hell never came home pregnant.  Not until I was 34, anyway.

In my heart, I knew this was a girl and wanted one badly.  I had no idea why.  I just felt strongly that Ina was in there, sucking the life-force out of me and already becoming a better woman that I would ever be by stealing all my good bits in some cosmic game of Risk.  As the pregnancy wore on, and the constant queasiness wore off, and people began offering their opinions without asking, I started to question whether my instincts were correct.  Everyone seemed to think I should want a boy.  BabyDaddy seemed to want a boy.  Did I really want a boy?  Could this little monster be growing a penis just to spite me?  Or would it be to save me?

One last behemoth fight last night with BabyDaddy sent my head spinning into an overnight web session of Question Everything.  What were we doing?  How were we going to care for this child and keep our jobs and find a way to get along and agree on moral standards and heat the house and walk the dogs and not stay fat and choose the right school and pay for diapers and most importantly find someone to actually WATCH the child??  And what the hell were we doing about US?  We were engaged for approximately two weeks and it all went to hell, and the subject had never been broached again.  Weren’t we just fooling ourselves?  And why couldn’t I stop crying??

This morning I put on my fat pants and loaded Katie in the car for a brief stay at Casa BabyDaddy.  When we arrived at the hospital, BabyDaddy casually announced, “I’ve been thinking I’ll stay home with the baby.”  He’d better not be toying with me. My bladder was over-full, and the wait was excruciating for that reason.  Oh, yeah, and because I wanted to see my baby!

"I'm ready for my closeup, Mr Demille." Already more photogenic than I.

The images were, to say the least, startling and mesmerizing.  It was so clear!  There on the screen, in a dark little room with a sweet student technician, I saw my baby for the first time.  And I could tell that it was my baby!  There was a head, and legs, and arms with precious little hands, and a mouth that would not stay closed.  (Definitely mine.)  I saw a spine and ribs and a tossing, turning little bundle of Ina/Murphy, and suddenly I didn’t really care whether it was a he or a she.  That was my baby!  And it was perfect.

I knew we couldn’t keep staring at the screen forever.  The (now two) technicians had shot him/her from every conceivable angle, captured every organ and measured every vital part.  Now it was just for fun.  And fun, it was.  I didn’t want them to stop…but somewhere another woman with an over-full bladder was waiting to see her baby for the first time.

“Are we going to sex this baby today?” asked the senior technician.  I hadn’t seen any indication of sex organs, or even an angle that would provide them.

“Oh, yes, if it is possible!  I really want to know!”  BabyDaddy coolly (while sweating and grinning like an idiot) said he didn’t care either way.  The technician hesitated, “Weeeeellllll…our doctors really don’t like us to make a guess until 22 weeks, but….”  She swung the tool around to a great shot of Ina/Murphy’s rump and continued, “If I had to say, I’d say this is a girl.”

YES!!

She pointed out the three lines on the screen that she had been looking for.  While it wasn’t “definitive,” there was no reason to think this wasn’t a little Ina.  I turned and apologized to BabyDaddy (for no reason other than to rub it in) and looked back at my tiny baby girl, who was a girl all along.  Pretty sure.

When we left the room and started toward the car, we began talking about what it all meant.  He just kept repeating, “We’re having a baby!” as though it was sinking in for the first time–though I’m sure my expanding belly has been a good indicator.  We reflected on how his own parents had thought he was a girl until he was born, and the possibility that things could still swing the other way.  And there is a possibility.  So do we start referring to her as Ina?  And can we ever stop saying Ina/Murphy?

It occurred to us that out of all the perfectly lovely names we’d picked for her middle, none of them ever sounded quite as spot-on as Ina Murphy.  So what if we just kept it?  I hated to throw away a perfectly strong boy name, as the day’s experiences had me yearning for another baby already.  (BabyDaddy says LABOR will cure this.)  I want a Murphy Dean, someday, certainly.  But Ina Murphy is cemented in my brain now.  She is in my belly and, like a dog, will respond to whatever we call her.  So what if she has a boy’s middle name?  Maybe she could have two of them like her older half-sister.  It seemed, in the light of this joyous day, that the possibilities were really endless.