I know, Nathan is like the most-grotesquely-popular-name-in-the-history-of-the-world-ever. But hear me out. It’s from the Hebrew natan, meaning gift, and that’s what we feel we’re getting.
Not to ruin everyone’s day, but this is our second pregnancy. The first ended in the emergency room after 11 weeks. I’m not going to say too much about that experience now, except that it was as soul-crushing as it sounds. And afterward there’s nothing you can do really but cry and sleep, and neither makes you feel better.
But you do start to appreciate things beyond your control.
So here’s to “Nathan,” as his mother and I will call him when he brings home his first C.
Or “Nathaniel,” as he’ll call himself when he publishes a stodgy novel about suburban discontents.
Or “Nate,” as his buddies will chant when he shotguns his first beer.
I’ll take any of these. It’s all gravy from here.