Charles Hanley

It's a big responsibility, naming a child.  And not an easy task, trying to match a name to a baby and a bouquet of dreams.
We’ve done it before, pored over options, chosen and bestowed the best, acutely aware of the permanence of our decision.  And we've watched each of our children rise inside to somehow make their name feel true.
We knew this baby would carry around this string of letters for the rest of his life, knew that we would whisper it when we tell him goodnight and shout it from the sidelines at little league games.

Mom’s much older sister Metta, an aunt I never had the chance to know, had a son named Charles, whom I grew up knowing as Uncle Chip (although we’re actually cousins).  Chip was the third Stevers to be named Charles -- his grandfather was Charles Blaine, his father was Charles Lewis and he is Charles Herbert.
Chip and his wife Diana organized our family reunion trip to Wales, and have been here for backyard parties. They're at every Herbert wedding and have entertained us all at their home.  They even babysat the boys in NYC last fall so we could see Hamilton.  Chip is someone we admire and love.  It is our hope that this baby will grow up afforded plenty of opportunities to spend time with him, to hear him sing and listen to his stories, to build Legos and play knights and dragons, and to someday run things through the prism of his counsel.

We don't call any of the boys by their first names, but at least they've all got something solid to fall back on, should they choose.  Thomas, James and now Charles.

Hanley Cecil Betz, Andy’s great grandpa Harry’s brother, was a March baby, born in 1906.  Hanley was a school superintendent in southern Ohio, known to have been frugal and kind of a deal maker -- in fact, most of the Hanley stories that live on are about him trying to pay back debts with coupons or following obituaries of wealthy gentlemen in order to take fancy cars off the hands of fresh widows.  He was notorious for never throwing anything away.
The first time I met Hanley, confined to a wheelchair but still very much full of life, his finger nails were painted bright red.  I'm pretty sure he enjoyed the company of the cute young cosmetology students who were sent to the nursing home to practice their skills.

So that's how we arrived at Charles Hanley, nick-named Hank.

And that K at the end, to get from Hanley to Hank?
That’s all for Aunt Kate.

the next day

When we told our family about this pregnancy, I felt myself keeping my excitement somewhere across the room. 

We all worried the baby could be on his way out of this world even as he was on his way in.

Death brushing past makes people hungry to connect to more people in a big push toward life, a celebration of surviving.

When Hank arrived, healthy, the room was soon full of people who love him, a celebration of surviving.

the first night

I am mostly still lost in a fog between the dream and the day, mostly still wondering at the way the universe sneaks so many good things into such a small package.

Because I am not entirely sure I will ever get around to creating a fourth baby album, and because I know there are still a few people who read here and might appreciate additional images, these, from the evening of Hank's arrival:

so much more to share, but for now:

Charles Hanley Betz
born March 10
at 9:08 pm
9 pounds, 19 inches

pregnant pause

It's been a long week, pregnant beyond me, beyond a mother, moments taut around all of us.
Time slows for family and friends who check in periodically, loved ones watching anxiously from sidelines, waiting with us.  Time slows, and these days time doesn't do that often, usually sliding downhill fast, days pass in blinks and decades are gone in gulps, usually we're busy fussing over too many things to notice minute hands.  Lately though, wondering when a new human will arrive, we're playing inside slowed moments, hearts clenched in prayers of gratitude and eager hopefulness, a bursting roundness and joyful anticipation about all of us.  The baby's silence somehow adds power, building suspense, a reminder that something significant will soon happen.  We can hardly wait.

seven on the seventh

Dear Tucker,

You are seven and I am sentimental.

Speaking of, so are you, actually. You opened a card from family in Seattle and your voice cracked a bit reading it.  You fought back tears as you shared aloud a letter from RoRo that explained the science kits you'd be receiving in the mail each month.  And when Kate gave you the book you'd circled in your Scholastic order, the one about molecules, you said so sincerely "I've been looking forward to this!"

You are seven and you are sentimental.  And you are so many other things.

You are such a wonderful mix of worldliness and innocence.  You are wise and funny and tender.
You love animals and innocence and beauty.  You avoid cruelty and conflict.
You are full of big ideas, and are far less inclined to large doses of my lap.
You are interested in elements and compounds, in zombies and mazes and knock-knock jokes.
You ask powerful questions and chuckle at funny poetry.
You are are good at math and music and you spin stories into gold.
Last night you said you might rather be an author than a scientist, and I said you could be both.
I told you about the book I just finished, the one by the neurosurgeon who strung words like pearls.
You can be both, buddy.  There is nothing you can't do.

You've had cake and pie all week, and as I've watched you blow out all the candles, always allowing your little brother to help, I've felt myself wishing for something inexpressible, for something that would make me a mother fine and worthy of you.
You are one of my greatest birthday gifts ever.  That you are here at all, healthy and thriving, not to mention kind and creative, adventurous and generous, feels like more than a miracle.
You are so special, Tucker.  And I cannot believe my good fortune to grow with you.

Shine on, sweetheart.
And know that you are always, always loved.

still waiting