What's in a name

Scripture tells us we love because the Father first loved us.

It will not be until the moment you hold your baby 

that you know what it means for a father to love.

You will be nervous when she tells you.

You will smile and tell her how excited you are

because she needs you to tell her.

You will wait together, 

figure out the ins and outs of morning sickness,maternity clothes,

and bellybuttons turning inside-out.

Trying so hard to connect with a belly bump

you will trace the lines on a grainy ultrasound with your pinky finger.

Put your hand there.

It’s kicking.

You will read the books,

grimace at the pictures of what it would look like 

if you could see it:

a chubby, pink tadpole,

a big-eyed alien.

The baby calendar will tell you

Today your baby is the size of a grain of rice.

Today your baby is the size of a lentil.

You will not be able to agree on a name.

Today your baby is the size of a pea

a plump raisin

a grape

a kumquat.

You will both start calling the baby Kumquat.

Today your baby is the size of a brussel sprout

a jumbo shrimp

an avocado 

a mango

always some kind of delicious food

You will blame the baby calendar

when you gain as much weight as she does during her pregnancy.

You will not lose any of it once the child is born.

You will read a book for expectant fathers and realize 

how little you can ever expect when you have never done this before.

The baby calendar will give you a fun fact each day about pregnancy,

most of which will be about placentas.

In some cultures the placenta is buried,

planted with the seed of a tree.

In others it is burned or, perhaps, examined by a fortune teller

who will use it to predict the future fertility of the mother.

You will laugh to yourself every time it tells you of another culture 

in which the placenta is eaten by the mother

or the family

or the entire village,

how it can be dried into a powder, taken as medicine

or cooked up like scrambled eggs

You will sit with her the day the doctors induce labor

and you wait another day.

You will play board games to pass the time

let her purple your fingers once the contractions start

and hold the pail when the pitocin makes her sick

You will brush a hair back behind her ear with your pinky finger

and tell her she is beautiful.

She will crush your hand 

once every five minutes

every four

every three.

The doctors will come 

and you will run out of ways to tell hershe is doing such a good job.

You will not tell her that your fingers hurt.

She will let go

when she hears the baby cry and you tell her,

It’s a girl, hun.  We have a little girl.

The doctor will hand you a pair of scissors 

and call you Dad before anyone else.

He will show you where to cut the cord. 

They will attend to her as she delivers the placenta 

and you will hold your daughter for the first time

still wet and warm and smeared in waxy stuff like cheese, 

only it’s not cheese.

You will whisper your little girl’s name into her ear

and will not think about the baby calendar again

until they leave the placenta in a quart jar on the table

and do not take it away for hours

as if to say,

you can have it, if you want to. 

You will  listen to your sleeping daughter’s breath

as you sign your name

in the correct spot on the birth certificate

and never forget the moment

the word Father stopped referring

to someone else.