Yesterday, my cousin posted the good news on Facebook: his wife gave birth to their son, a fat, pink baby who is perfect in every way.
They named that sweet boy after our grandpa.
It took my breath away. Oh, Grandpa. I miss you terribly. I can hear your laugh – the laugh I heard through the house when we got the call that my brother was born, the laugh that I imagine you’d give hearing that one of your grandkids named their child in your honor. A wonderful, wonderful name.
I have a thing for family names. I think names should mean something, and always thought I might name my kids after my grandparents.
So when I caught my breath at my cousin’s big news?
It was so confusing. I was happy about the healthy baby, and touched that he was named after someone I love so much.
And I was hurt. Oh, sweet Oprah. It hurt me.
When it comes to not being able to have kids, I am Officially Fine. My brother and his wife are expecting their first child any second, and everybody has been Very Concerned about how I feel about them having a baby … like I might just snap and be super angry at them for being so fertile. Like I’d paint my face in camo and swing in on a vine like Tarzan and steal the baby at machete-point.
No. Just no. First of all, I am not that outdoorsy.
It’s not like they stole my baby. They are giving me a niece, and I am a mostly sane, mostly well-adjusted sane-like lady.
But my cousin naming his baby after our grandpa?
Well, I cried. I ugly cried. And all I could think about was the scene from “Julie and Julia” where Julia gets a letter from her sister. The sister has written that she is pregnant – something that’s eluded Julia.
Julia tells her husband, “Oh, isn’t that just wonderful news? Isn’t it just wonderful?” And she sobs.
And then hottie Stanley Tucci just holds her and kisses the top of her head and gets it.
Happy and sad and confused. It was like that.
My Guy held my hand. He got it, too. He also suggested gently, “I think you might be a really tired lady.”
Well, yes. That was true. But also? Grief is a fickle bitch. She pops up when you least expect her – and would really rather she just fucked off.
Yep, I get it. 48 years old, definitely past child-bearing age (even without the hysterectomy) and it still gets me sometimes.
OK, it gets me a lot. My eyes are full of tears right now.
Some days you just need an ugly cry. They come out of nowhere, and you had no idea you weren't fine… I hate them, but they're necessary I think. Right now I've been on the verge of what feels like an ugly cry for a couple of weeks now. I really wish I could figure out what I need to ugly cry about so it could just happen already. It's those silly irrational thoughts you thought you didn't have 🙁
You married a keeper.
You never know when the uglies will come a calling.
Here is to a sweeter day.
Reading that made me tear up.
Yeah, I get it.
That totally deserved the ugly cry for so many reasons.
And it was lovely to name the baby after a beloved relative. All my babies got family names for that very reason.
I get it. I've had ugly cries for less-deserving moments. You are wonderfully sane, with a great guy thrown in for good measure.