Abigail derives from the Hebrew words "ab," meaning "father," and the root "gyl," which means "to rejoice." Usually, it is interpreted as "my father's joy." We chose this name for my daughter because joy was what I felt when we found out Emily was pregnant (her middle name does not mean "my mother's panic," though that would have been accurate as well).
I think about her name when I'm up with her at 5:04 am. Sometimes I think she's a little machine that, if she just takes her fuel, will do what I want and follow the routine. And then she extends a feeding out by two hours because she can't stay awake long enough to eat but then won't stay asleep because she hasn't eaten enough, and we cycle into oblivion.
In those moments, she is not her father's joy. Or is she? Her name isn't my father's happiness.
Oh man, this is about to turn into a mom blog where we talk about the difference between joy and happiness. Let's go, my dear friends!
Nope. That's not my job, and you don't pay me to recycle well-intentioned leftovers we've all heard before (you can if you'd like, I'll write whatever you want for the right price so my little joy can go to Disney World).
Rather than get on my stupid, cardboard pulpit and preach, I'll let you into my thoughts: if Abigail did what I wanted her to do at 5 am, I think I'd be happy—some lukewarm soul soup and 4.5 hours of sleep.
She didn't, and so I said a bad word (apologized to her for saying said bad word) and rocked her for another hour until we both passed out at 5 am, her in her bassinet, me drooling on a decorative pillow.
She didn't want to eat. She didn't want to sleep. Maybe she was asserting her little independence, but really, she wanted to be close to my chest and feel safe.
And knowing that now, I feel joy, piping hot joy.
That's Abigail.