Before My Mother Named Me

Early September:

I remember the night you met my father. You were tipsy and he was flirting with you at a frat party your senior year at Berkeley. My soul felt the way your heart skipped a beat when he ran his fingers through his tousled hair. I was outside of you then; but I was hovering oh so near. I was drawing closer later that evening while I watched the cup of his hand slide over your hip, and even further still.

The moment he became part of you, that magical moment that eclipses as two bodies become one entity, one passionate living breathing being, there was this moment in time. It was the moment that only comes once in all eternity for each of us.  It is the moment that changes everything!

 Before you named me, you and my daddy helped create me. I heard your giggles when you admitted you weren’t the kind of girl who normally did this sort of thing. The eyes of my spirit saw how Daddy looked into your eyes and just sighed. Did you know you meant more to him than just this moment? He felt future, not just fun, more than the immediacy of mere satisfaction. His external confidence is big, but his internal longings have quiet deep roots that hide beneath the surface of things.

Late September:

Before you gave me a name, God was stitching me together. He was sewing up my neural tube that would eventually grow my brain so smart, that it would give me the capacity to cure cancer in the distant future. Can you believe it Mom? Yes, I will be the one that unlocks this genomic mystery. But not quite yet, give me time.

My heart is being formed too. It’s the one that’s going to break so bad when I’m six because my new kitten will get hit by a car. Your loving arms and Daddy’s warm chest will sop up my tears on that dreadful day. They are the only things that will comfort me. I wish I didn’t have to endure this.   You will remind me that this is not the end.

Thirty years later, cats and dogs of all varieties and all levels of unwantedness and unloveliness will be saved and adopted because of that little one that died so young—all because my heart will demand it. You know early on, that I knowall life is precious.

 Time will pass. Because of my unique heart I will play “vet” my whole childhood to all these beloved pets. That’s because I’m practicing for my real mission of curing cancer someday.

Baby at 4 weeks

Late October:

While my urinary tract and kidneys have been congealing and forming, you have been moody of late. You felt dizzy all day in class today. Something is amiss. Daddy senses you’re changing. He’s been distracted as of late too. In his Infrastructural Architectural class, a young Norwegian girl who is studying abroad finds him attractive.   He feels conflicted. The stress between you and him is palpable at night.

You both had a terrible argument last night. I heard raised voices and sensed the tiny splash of tears when they hit the floor. Were you thinking of me during this moment?

I need to know my name. Please! Don’t fight. It’s going to be okay. I want to meet you both soon.

 I want to love you!

“I can’t do this anymore!” I hear you shout. “I’m pregnant” you finish, barely a whisper.

You could have heard a pin drop. Yet only silence prevailed. The invisible bomb of shock that explodes when two people realize the gravity of a decision that has arisen out a moment that seemed like no decision about anything, other than this moment, this feeling, was required.

Do you love me? I felt each of you wonder about the other.

Do you love me? My spirit wonders too. Do I exist in your mind yet? Am I even real?  

My cells are exploding exponentially, even more quickly then your questions that are also multiplying. Both of your heads are spinning. You can’t grasp this whole future thing. Eternity. It’s too much. Being sure of anything, much less the future has always been impossible. Predictability has always been a temporal illusion.

Things happen for a reason. Your grandma used to tell you this. Do you remember?

As I’m forming, and moving beyond dividing cells I’m becoming more fully human, your own world is unraveling.

I’m so sorry mommy. I’m sorry daddy.

Baby at 8 weeks

 November 1st:

I know Daddy said something that hurt your feelings. The moment you slapped his face, I felt my own wrist bend for the first time. I’m floating and suspended. I’m in a dark place.  I know you are in your own dark place too. I want to tell you it will be okay. But I can’t speak yet. I will with all of my spirit for you to hear me. I don’t know if it does.

I taste things a bit now. It’s salty here. Did your tears find their way down here? My little webbed feet are starting to elongate. They won’t look like this much longer.

The days keep passing and I know you are so stressed.   You have such big dreams. You are so close to graduating.   I feel your hurried movements as you go to and fro chasing a future that seems so close, and yet so far away. Everything in your head is jumbled. Your jeans are too tight, your bra is too small, and I still don’t have a name.

Late November:

It’s been twelve weeks since the party. I haven’t heard my Daddy’s voice for a third of my entire life now. I sense all is not well with us mom. What can I do to help? Again, my spirit tries to send you this message, but can you hear me? How can the helpless help anyone anyway?

 I’m curled up in a ball now. My eyes have moved to where they need to be. I don’t look like an alien anymore. My spirit eyes saw how you looked with equal fascination and an odd repulsion at the screen as you Googled baby development one night. Human shrimp. I saw you think that. But you said human in your mind first. I may be shrimp-like because I am small. But if you wait and see, I have the potential to influence presidents, and save hundreds of thousands in third world nations.

But I still don’t have a name Mom. I only have a brain, even though it has unlimited capacity. I have eyes as blue as a sky. I have small hands, but they will knit for hours someday. I have, little pink lips that kiss kittens, and a little girl laugh that I never outgrow. Just like you mom. I am your daughter.

I long to be bundled in a blanket and feel your warm breasts filling with milk as you gaze down at me with the most incredible love you’ve ever known for anyone—anything!

Baby at 12 weeks

December 1st:

 I need you more than I’ve ever needed anyone. Especially at this moment. This hour of decision. This moment in time, a blip in the span of eternity, but the one that changes everything.  

 I know you know the truth. You’ve seen the news. You’ve watched the videos. You’ve tried to tell yourself you don’t feel anything at all. I know you do. You can lie to the whole world, but you can’t fool yourself.

You’ve played this most important moment over and over and over in your head before even one second of it has come to be yet. You’ve lived the nightmare-to-be in your imagination a thousand times:

Fear. Cold steel. Shame. Tools. Tubes. Suction. Tears. Isolation. Parts. Sold. Over. Nightmares. Longing. Regret. Relief. Regret. Relief? Regret. Regret. Regret.  Don’t think about it. Secrecy. Forever.

You’re in limbo. I know. I am too.

Baby at 16 weeks

December – Forever:

We could love each other you know. The future could just be bright.

God already knows the day and time I’m coming home forever.


For He knows my name. Do you?

**All baby in utero pictures above are from the site

Picture 138


For you created my inmost being;
    you knit me together in my mother’s womb.
I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
    your works are wonderful,
    I know that full well.
My frame was not hidden from you
    when I was made in the secret place,
    when I was woven together in the depths of the earth.
Your eyes saw my unformed body;
    all the days ordained for me were written in your book
    before one of them came to be.

Psalm 139:13-16

(Photo: My life at 40.  NOW: the best time to stand up for and choose life!)

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