As soon as I found out I was pregnant with my first child, I started talking about names. Who knew coming up with a name could be so stressful? Or that Bob would have such strong, unbending opinions about it?

"I love the name Brooke Ellen--don't you think it has a melodious ring to it?”

I barely got the words out before Bob answered, "I hate it." 

We didn’t butt heads so much with boy’s names. I only cared that it be one syllable. But I continued to throw out one girl's name after another. He didn't like any of them, nor could he come up with a name he did like. I think he was so convinced we were having a boy, that he stopped caring. So when I suggested Emily Ann, he said he was good with it.  

We dutifully signed up for Lamaze classes. What cruel wacko came up with that absurd idea? How much unnecessary torture has been endured because some masochistic liar claimed that different breathing combinations could make natural childbirth a pleasant experience?

I remember the Lamaze instructor having our husbands, or "coaches" as she insisted on calling them, pinch us with increasing pressure-- so we could practice "breathing" through the pain. I'm embarrassed now that I joined the herd mentality that bought into that claptrap.

Throughout all my pregnancies, I had an unspoken fear that there would be something wrong with the baby. I don’t know where the fear stemmed from, but I couldn’t shake it. I remember thinking, who am I to deserve a perfect baby? I think back and wonder if God was preparing me for my third pregnancy when we would know from the very beginning that indeed something was very wrong with the baby.

Because this first baby was in no hurry to make his or her appearance, we had to go the inducement route. I only realized after my second child was born, what a doubly tortuous “route” this was.

It didn’t seem so bad at first but it slowly built up to the most excruciating pain I'd ever felt. Of course Bob, the “coach,” was right there with me, telling me how much easier it would be if I would just breathe the way "we'd" practiced. I hated the Coach. 

To top it off, my brilliant doctor had estimated the baby to be around seven pounds, instead, without the aid of any pain medication, I gave birth to a baby girl weighing in at just under ten pounds.

In spite of the horrific pain, I decided there could be no greater joy than giving birth. The awe and instantaneous surge of love was overwhelming. And whether Bob thought he was ready for a baby or not, with her first breath he loved our baby girl with everything he had in him.

My whole family had spent the day at the hospital, so while I was getting “repaired,” they flocked to the nursery to get their first peek at Emily Ann.

My younger brother, Craig, came in to see me first, “She’s a moose!” he laughed, “she’s twice the size of all the other babies in there.”

I didn’t know it at the time, but my mom told me later that Craig left my room and headed straight to the nursing station—insisting something was wrong with me because my whole body was shaking violently. That shaking lasted for hours and was soon accompanied with a burning fever. I ended up staying in the hospital for a week, so many antibiotics pumping through my veins that every pore seeped out the smell of them. 

When Bob came back the day after Emily Ann was born, he had our “Baby Names” book with him. “I’m sorry, but I can’t stand the name Emily. I think it sounds like a grandma’s name.”

Almost delirious with pain and fever, I didn’t care. “Fine, pick whatever name you want.”

He thumbed through the pages and came up with Caitlin. I loved it. I had plenty of time to come up with a middle name and since I’d always loved the name Suzanne, that’s what we settled on—Caitlin Suzanne. It’s a beautiful name and it fit her to a tee.