My goodness, if you think that coming up with a real-life moniker for your soon-to-bee or newborn is tough, try coming up with a fitting blog pseudonym for that very same child.
With Bee, it was easy (Note to expectant second time parents – from here on out everything that happens with your second will be benchmarked against your first. Notice that I did not say compared. Benchmarked is more non-partisan, non?) – she looked like a bumblebee in utero, and that’s how we referred to her. Bee is not her real-life nickname, but it’s still a good fit here.
This one? Once I accepted that she was real and was staying put inside me for the duration (and then some), we referred to her as Baby Sister. (Note to expectant second time parents – from here on out, everything you do with or about the second will be with the ease, comfort, security and enjoyment of the first in mind. Transitions can be tough. So can toddlers.) But I’m not going to call her Baby Sister here, because I can blog without worrying about how very sensitive Big Sister will react (at least until she can read), and Baby Sister deserves her own identity, one that does not have to do with her relationship to sensitive Big Sister.
So, phew. Ok. Who is she? I’m tempted to call her Grunty McSnortSnort, because her sounds are freakin’ too too much (especially benchmarked against Bee’s strong, silent infanthood), but readers may not interpret that in the same lovable, adorable, melt-my-heart-while-laughing kind of way. Plus, she’s not a character in a Dr. Seuss picture book.
I could call her Princess Fartsalot, but again, it may not seem very dignified down the line.
Peanut? No. The Baby? No. By her initial, C? No? Cupcake? Shayna Maidela? Sky, because her eyes are crazy blue and I’m kind of a hippie? No. No. No.
And then it came to me.
As I wrote in an earlier post, we didn’t name this baby after my dad - but that’s not entirely true. We didn’t name her after him in English. But Jewish children get Hebrew names, and she is named after my dad in Hebrew. In Hebrew, my dad’s name is Dov, which actually means bear.
This baby’s Hebrew name is a feminized version of that, but I think I like just calling her Dov. Dove. And it fits. She is very bird-like – she coos, and cranes her neck and flaps her little arms. And as evidenced by the tattoo on my ankle, symbolically, doves mean a lot to me. But this Dove will be part bear as well, and that right there – that is what I want to teach my children, and I will swell with pride if that’s who they are – peaceful and hopeful in spirit and heart and strong and resilient and fierce as hell when they need to be.
So, welcome to the blogospere, Dove.