We’re somewhere in rural Pennsylvania, driving home from our holiday road trip, when the phone rings through the van’s speakers. Not recognizing the number, I disconnect Bluetooth before I answer. Speaker phone is one of my least favorite things; call me old-fashioned, but I like holding the phone up to my ear and since I’m in the passenger seat I don’t feel guilty over using my hands.
“Hello?”
A deep voice replies, “Hi, this is Jim from Atlantic Labradoodles.” I can barely hear him through the static, but I recognize the name at once.
“Oh hi!” I reply; “We were just thinking about you a few days ago!”
“Hi, yes, I’m calling to tell you that the puppies have been born and they are all doing just fine. Shirley is taking good care of them and we hope to send some pictures in a couple of weeks.”
My heart swells. We sent a deposit for a labradoodle in early November, but we were number eight on the list and there was no way to tell how many puppies would be born. I’ve held off agreeing to a pet for two years now, mostly out of fear that I don’t have the energy to keep one more thing alive. The girls have lobbied hard, though, and when David joined their team in October and spent hours watching puppy videos, my resolve began to fall. It’s possible that he is the most excited of us all.
I’m sure I’ll have a hundred questions as soon as I hang up, but at this moment my brain is totally empty. I’ve never gotten a dog from a breeder before; my family always had pets growing up, but we usually found them abandoned on the side of the road. We’d bring them home and they’d fast become beloved family members for as long as they lived. None of us care what this puppy looks like—as long as it’s ours. Looking back now, I realize I probably should have asked if we were for sure on the list, but all that came out of my mouth was, “Oh, that’s wonderful!”
The line goes static again and I faintly hear him say, “Okay then, we’ll be in touch.” I say thank you and hang up the phone. My girls are in the backseat watching Mary Poppins, so the moment I end the call, I press pause on the DVD player and turn to share the good news.
“The puppies have been born!”
They squeal with excitement. David’s mouth erupts into the toothiest grin I’ve ever seen. He’s dreamed of having a dog all his life, but his allergies have always gotten in the way. It’s been seven years since we last had a pet, our beloved cat Simba, who was quite a legend around our Atlanta neighborhood. Part of my hesitation in agreeing to a pet is the deep loss I felt when he died. My eyes still well with tears when I think about him.
Fast chatter ensues and the questions I neglected to ask begin to pile up. Maybe I should have left the call on speaker phone after all.
When were they born? What do they look like? How many are there? Are there enough in the litter? Will we really get a puppy this round? What will we name it?
“I’ll call him back when we get home and ask all of our questions. I don’t know any details, just that they were born.” I tell them my guess is that we’ll pick up our new puppy at the end of February, but don’t know for sure.
I press play on the DVD player. The girls continue their journey with Mary Poppins, and David and I return to Ed Sheeren’s new album. Green hills roll by me through the window and I begin thinking about the new puppy.
What are we going to name it?
The first time I shared the news I was pregnant with my oldest; it was to a group of high schoolers. I was Director of Youth Ministry in my church at the time. We were at a summer mission camp in Knoxville, Tennessee. It was very early in my pregnancy, and it felt like from the moment of conception I was permanently nauseous and more exhausted than I imagined possible.
When I told the leader of the camp, who is a dear friend, what was going on, she gave me a room in the church building, instead of the dorm rooms I usually shared with the kids. Instead of going out to mission sites each morning, I stayed back for on-site tasks. My teenagers quickly picked up on the fact that something was not like previous years and began to worry. My entire ministry with teens and their parents was built on transparency and honesty, so it felt important to let them in on what was going on.
That night at devotions, I pulled my group together in a large half moon. “I have something I need to tell you,” I said tentatively. The faces of twenty-one teenagers and four adults watched me intently, their eyes getting big; they tuned in at once knowing this wasn’t going to be like any other devotion we had ever had. “You’ve probably noticed I haven’t been participating like usual. I am sorry for that. You know I would never ask you to do something I myself won’t do, but this year has to be different.”
I took a deep breath before continuing, my stomach queasy. Rather than morning sickness, however, this nausea came from anxiousness. All the books say don’t share your news until the second trimester, and here I was, just seven weeks pregnant, about to tell a group of teenagers. What if something happened?
I reminded myself that if something happened, this group of teenagers and adults would be there for me in that moment too, and I bravely opened my mouth and finished what I had to say.
“I’m pregnant.”
The boys gasped. The girls cheered. The adults whooped. A grin appeared on my face, relieved to have let them in on my secret, but I remained quiet, signaling I had more to say. The chatter died down and I let them know it was still very early, but I had been very nauseous and very tired, so that’s why I wasn’t participating fully.
One girl, who I was particularly close to, spoke up—”You’re going to have a baby!” The cheering began again, and I felt surrounded by love. It was no more than 30 seconds before another girl said, “What are you going to name her? It’s a girl, right?!”
The boys argued, confident it was a boy. When I informed them I wouldn’t know for several months whether or was a boy or a girl, they decided to find a name that could suit either.
Naming the baby became their favorite activity that week. Conversation at every meal centered around possible names for Baby Rowe. The day before we were to leave, I was sitting at a table eating lunch with David and four teenagers when one girl said “I know, Crystal! You should name the baby ‘Zee’ for ‘zygote’! Then we can call it Z. Rowe!”
The table roared with laughter, and the name stuck. David had been called “D. Rowe” by friends for as long as I had known him and when we got married, I affectionately became known as “C. Rowe.” It’s only appropriate that the new baby would have its own similar nickname. When David and I discovered our babe would be a girl and we chose a name that began with A, they agreed to call her “A. Rowe” instead. But every once in a while, “Z. Rowe” slipped out.
We are sitting at the table after dinner one night when the question gets raised again: “What are we going to name our puppy?” Autumn asks, then turns to David before continuing; “Mommy wants a name from a book. But not from Harry Potter.”
David looks at me quizzically and I shake my head. “Harry Potter is too popular right now. I want a more obscure name. A clever name. We should name the puppy a good literary name. From one of our favorite books.”
Choosing names is not one of my strengths. I have high standards when it comes to names. I want to be purposeful in choosing names; every name should have a meaning behind it. I want it to be unique but not trendy. I want it to be beautiful and I don’t want any possibility that it might be made fun of.
When I was pregnant—both times—David and I played the “mean kid game”. With every name idea we had, we’d see if we could find a way to make fun of it. If we were successful, the name was taken off the list. We spent hours talking about names before we settled on any final choice. Funnily enough, the middle name was easiest for both girls. Their middle name held the meaning; the first name just had to sound pretty. And not be something that would be made fun of.
Around the dinner table, we start calling names out, trying to come up with reasons why they won’t work. I throw out “Lena” (from Adventures from Waffles) and “Oliver” (from The Vanderbeekers). “Maybe we should start a list,” I say, and Autumn runs quickly out of the room to find paper and a pen. The moment she returns, she adds “Trill” (also from Adventures from Waffles). We erupt into laughter when David pretends to call a dog named Trill with a high pitched “Trrrriiillllll.” As we are cackling and having a wonderful time, I remember Eden has gone to take a shower.
“We shouldn’t be doing this without Eden,” I say; “she’ll feel left out if we come up with names without her.” I’m sad to lose the momentum we have going over naming this new puppy that we aren’t even 100% sure we are on the list for, but this exercise in choosing a name should be something we all share. Autumn and David nod their heads and we put the list to the side, promising to pick it up at dinner the next night.
Since the beginning of time, when God gave Adam & Eve the task of naming plants & animals, humans have had an innate desire to name things. In naming something, we give it a unique identity. It becomes more than a story. A name makes us real.
Through the act of naming, those of us choosing a name are also transformed. Rarely do we name alone. Even if we make a final decision solo, the process of coming up with names usually happens in community with others. Finding the perfect name requires conversation, brainstorming, creativity; collaboration with others close to us. When we list possible names, we are brought closer to the ones we are naming with. We share stories with one another. We laugh together. We are brought closer to each other through naming another.
I want my girls to experience the same joy in naming a puppy that my teenagers did over naming my zygote ten years ago.
The next night at dinner, Autumn grabs her list of names from the piano, where she stashed it the previous night. “Can we name our puppy now?,” she asks? She likes to be prepared, this first-born daughter of mine. She likes to take control and be in charge. If this puppy has a name it will be real—no longer just a dream.
“We can list ideas for names, but I don’t think we can pick a name until we meet the puppy.” She begrudgingly nods her head and begins reading the list out loud.
“Hyacinth!” Eden calls out. “For a girl!” “Oooooh,” we all say; “That’s a good one!” “What about Bieder?” I chime in. “You know, like Mr. Biederman?” The Vanderbeekers are like family in our house—it feels appropriate that this puppy’s name might come from those books. We list several more names before I tell them it’s time to get ready for bed.
A week or so later I open my email to find a message with the subject: your new pup. I open it and gasp. “Look! Here’s our puppy!” David and the girls jump off their stools at the counter and come rushing to see. Crowding around my tiny screen, they gush over this three-week old puppy, agreeing it’s the cutest puppy they’ve ever seen.
Three-week old puppies, like human babies, are only slightly cute. Their full cuteness comes in around six weeks, when hair starts to fill in and they begin to look like a tiny adult, but this puppy could have one eye and they would still think it’s perfect. This puppy is their dream come true.
They look at me, their eyes full of wonder and love, and in unison ask:
What are we going to name him?
This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "A Name”.
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