(Warning: This is a whiny one. Wah.)

I head to Chicago today to see Sister N and her family and to meet her brand new baby boy. Chickie (his awesome alias) entered this fine world exactly a week ago and after some internal debate and bloggy banter here on the virtue and vice of advice-giving (and receiving), I am off. And I am excited.

But here’s the thing: I don’t want to go.

Let me explain. I want to go. I want to congratulate my sister and her husband. I want to snuggle her new addition. I want to play with my nieces who are newly-minted fellow big sisters. I want to do all of these things.

It’s just that I don’t want to go. I don’t want to leave home and Husband and the girls.

It’s not that I’m lazy. (I am, but that’s not the point of this particular post.) It’s not that I hate to fly. (I do, but that’s not the point of this particular post.) It’s not that I hate to carry my own suitcase. (I do, but that’s not the point of this particular post.)

I don’t know what it is. But the thought of leaving for two whole days and two whole nights? It makes me sad and anxious. I say the thought because in actuality, I know I will be perfectly fine. I am a big girl. I will get myself to the airport with plenty of time. I will check in. I will sniff out some trashy gossip magazines and the nearest Starbucks. I will board my plane and exchange pleasantries with flight attendants and fellow passengers. I might even savor a little nap en route. And then I will arrive at my destination and find my way to my sister’s place. Once there, I will bounce around, doling out hugs and I will study the little man who just one week ago was cozy in my sister’s belly preparing for his debut. I will see if his great name fits him after all.

I know I will have a fantastic weekend. I know I will be so happy that I made the trip.

But now. I’m not so psyched. Why?

Maybe it is because my girls have entered a bit of a Mommy phase? Yes, that’s right. My girls who are utterly obsessed with their daddy have begun to think I am kind of cool. They chase me and hug me and bury their heads in my chest. They croon “MOMMY!” loudly and in unison when I leave the room. Baby has just begun to string words together and my favorite sentence of hers? “Hi, Mommy.” It’s a good one. Maybe a little part of me doesn’t want to go now because we are having this little mommy-daughter love fest and I worry that a weekend alone with Daddy will just convert them back to Daddy’s Girls?

Maybe it is because now that I am a parent I worry more about safety? I have never been a super adventurous chick, but these days I am a downright scaredy-cat. I have never adored flying, but now? I hate the idea of being alone in the air at the mercy of Mother Nature and a man-made machine where I have no guarantee that I will be safe. When my girls are out of my view, I do not have evidence of their well-being. Recently, one of my good friends mused about the core desire to feel safe. Intellectually, I know that flying is quite safe and that my girls will be just fine at home, but that feeling of worry? It’s at once very familiar and no fun.

Maybe it is because I know my girls will be fine and that I will be fine? Maybe I do not want to leave for a weekend because this will prove that I can leave for a weekend. That the Rowley household will go on without me. That Husband and the girls will not skip a beat. That they will laugh and sing and dance and watch Dora and take baths and will not miss me? Maybe I do not crave this reminder that I am not 100% needed, that I am in some sense dispensable?

Maybe I inherited this breed of anxiety and this distaste for travel? Growing up, my sisters and I went on many family trips. That is, with our parents. I cannot remember a time when my parents went away without us. I do remember times – and more recently – when Dad would travel for work, but I literally do not remember one occasion on which we were separated from Mom (who, by the way, does not fly at all). Maybe she bequeathed to me this lovely desire to stay put with little ones?

Maybe this is just an old school symptom of parenthood? Maybe this feeling, this gnawing anxiety and guilt (because, yes, this is probably a lot about guilt), is just part and parcel of parenthood? Maybe it is very normal to be a bit sad about saying goodbye even if it is only for a weekend? Maybe, once we have children, we naturally evolve into homebodies and develop a taste for cuddling on couches. Maybe, once we have children, the stakes are that much higher and we are increasingly aware of our own mortality and responsibility and fear?

Maybe I am just a mess? Maybe I am an overthinking, anxiety-prone, complainer? Maybe I am a spoiled soul who chooses not to recognize the good fortune of having and hands-on and supportive husband? Of being able to pay for a last minute ticket? Of being able to spontaneously hop a plane to travel and roll around in the incomparable joy of new life? Maybe I just like to see the rough spots on a smooth existence?

Could very well be.

I don’t know. What I do know is that I am cutting myself off now. What I do know is that I will be back here Monday telling you all about my wonderful trip and the sweet face of my new nephew. (Or, I might be here this weekend with some pictures of the little guy if my sister lets me!) What I do know is that it is probably good for me – and for my kids – that I get away from time to time. What I do know is that you are kind to humor me by sticking with me to the bitter end of this meandering woe is me post.

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Why is this so hard for me? Is it hard for you to leave home too? Do you get anxious about travel? Did your parents travel without you when you were young? If you have kids, is it hard for you to leave them? Has parenthood or adulthood made you more averse to adventure and risk and travel? Am I a big baby? If you are at a loss for words, feel free to tell me I am not alone. And then wish me a safe flight!

Yesterday, I passed along the big news that I have a new nephew, whined a bit about geographical distance, and praised modern technology for keeping us closer to those who are far away.

Today, I’m talking about names.

For the first day of his life, my nephew was nameless. We all knew that Sister N and her husband Brother-in-Law J2 (I have another brother-in-law J who was brave enough to enter the Donnelley scene first, so it’s only fair that I knight him as BIL J1) had a short list of names. And once their little Chickie arrived, we all waited to hear them announce a winner.

Despite our my growing impatience, they waited a bit to name their guy. My sister said they wanted to wait until the hospital staff had bathed their boy, until he was all cleaned up, so she and her husband could get a good look at him. To see what he looked like. And what name fit.

And this made perfect sense to me. And none at all.

In my opinion, babies look like babies. In my opinion, babies come to fit the name they have been given. In my opinion, this naming bit is far more about us than it is about them and what they look like upon entering this big, bad world.

But enough about my opinion. What about yours? Do you think that certain names fit certain babies? Do you think that one baby looks like a Sally and another a Sienna? Do you think one baby looks like a Fred and another a Fitzgerald (Ooooh. Love that one. I call it!)?

Uh oh.

Here I am, thirty-one-years into my earthly existence wondering for the first time if I look like an Aidan? What do you think? In the above shot, I am cuddling my two girls. It is the week before Christmas. I like this picture because my smile is a real smile. I was trying to contain giggling girls on my lap. I also like this picture because it was my fifth wedding anniversary and the night of my family holiday party and I had my hair and makeup done that day. Which means that, for once, I did not look like this:

Okay, I’m lying. I don’t look like this the majority of the time. Just every morning. Usually, I end up somewhere between the coiffed smiley shot above and this here pre-coffee cuteness.

In making the determination of whether I look like an Aidan, would it be useful to see a baby picture?

Voila.

Does that help? Does this little princess with a paucity of hair and a fat lower lip look like an Aidan? Or should she have been named Allison?

[Looking at this picture makes me think of two things which are total tangents. Hence the hyphens. (1) Am I too old to be crawling? Should I feel insecure about this fact?; (2) My girls as babies look/looked a lot like I did as a baby, right down to the chubby cheeks and quasi-mullet. I love this.]

Do names fit the person or does the person come to fit the name? I don’t pretend to know. What I do know is that I treasure my name.

I love being Aidan.

Yes, even though every professor thought I was a boy when reading from a list. Yes, even though it seems like 94% people think of Sex and the City when I introduce myself. Yes, even though this name has become an exceedingly popular choice for boys recently. Yes, even though I hear my name called several times every time I make a cameo at a playground or at a kiddie class and this has made my ego swell beyond measure.

Yes, even though.

My name means “little fire.” I don’t know what I looked like when I entered this world. I don’t know what I acted like in my first days. I don’t know who I was back then.

But I do know who I am today. I am Aidan. A happy soul who revels in periodic sadness. An overgrown tomboy who likes to get dolled up. An artificial confection who clings to authenticity. A chaos dweller who wishes for order. A perfectionista who celebrates flaws. A creature riddled with contradictions.

A little fire. Waiting to grow up.

Not that it matters – or maybe this is exactly what matters – but I think I look like an Aidan. I do.

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Do you think you fit your name? Does your name fit you? What do you think the relationship between name and named is? How has your name affected you (or not)? How did you name your own kids if you have them? Enough about you. Do I look like an Aidan?

I have a brand new nephew! Yes, that’s right. Sister N welcomed her third child and first son Friday night and we couldn’t be more thrilled. Her little dude made his debut two days after his due date and weighed in at a solid nine pounds, six ounces. My superstar sister survived it all and she and her family are settling in at home as a family of five.

As I mentioned in a recent post, Sister N and her family live in Chicago and the distance has been difficult, particularly during her pregnancy. And now. Her boy is here. And all I want to do is give her a hug. And see her new addition. Alas, there are many miles separating us. In an ideal world, I would waste zero time hopping on a plane. When she went into labor with her first daughter a little over four years ago, I did just that. I heard that she was headed for the hospital and I booked a flight. I remember waiting at my gate when her husband texted to announce that it was a girl. I arrived in her hospital room mere hours after she became a mom.

But things are different now. I have two little girls of my own and a sea of obligations. As much as I would like to, I cannot just go.

So, tethered to the intricacies of my good life, I must wait a bit. Until I can sneak away and celebrate with my sister. Soon. I hope so at least.

The picture above? No, it’s not Chickie. (No, that’s not his name, but what they called him in utero.) I wish I could share a photo with you and tell you his name because he is a cute little (okay, not-so-little) guy and his name is nothing short of amazing. These are not my details to pass along, so I won’t. But I will tell you one thing I’m thankful for in the wonderful wake of my sister’s welcoming new life: Technology.

Technology?

Yes, technology. If he were around, Dad, a lovable Luddite, would not be proud. He would prefer that I wax poetic about Daddy Darwin and the majesty of evolution and genetic mystery. And I will do that another day. But today, I am thankful for technology.

Because of technology – cell phones, email, texting and Facebook in particular – I felt like I was part of Chickie’s arrival. On Friday night, Husband, the girls, and I met Mom, Sister I and her fam for an early dinner at our favorite neighborhood haunt. It was there that I got the call from Sister N. They were headed to the hospital. Her contractions were strong. Just a few hours later, I got a text that I had a new nephew. Thanks to various Facebook updates in the middle of the night, I knew that Chickie was a big guy. I was able to see his little face, clear as day on the tiny screen of my phone. This kid is only a few days old and I have already seen ten videos of him. Crying. Yawning. Displaying squishy cheeks. Being a superhero. Meeting his sisters. His grandmother. The list goes on.

So, yes. Times have changed. Technology is affecting the way we experience life and the world.

But today I am so thankful for that. I am thankful for the ability to feel a little bit closer when in reality I am so far away. I am thankful that until I am able to hop that plane, I will have my sweet little Chickie fixes.

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Please join me in congratulating Sister N and her family on the arrival of her baby boy. How do you feel about the ever-expanding role of technology in our world? Are you able to see the positive side of the ubiquity of technology like I am?

I did many things during my winter break from blogging. Like take a pregnancy test.

What?

No, Anyone Who Cares in the Slightest. I am not pregnant.

But for about thirty-six hours in the recent past, I was convinced that I was. While Project Number Three is a hot topic of conversation these days chez Rowley, Husband and I have decided to wait a bit to try to make this a reality. But when I was two days late for my exceedingly regular period (sorry if this is information you do not crave) and not feeling so great, a mini-light bulb flared in my mind.

Could it be?

I wasn’t the only one who jumped to conclusions. Husband did too. We just had that collective hunch. And you know what? Even though this very-hypothetical pregnancy was something we didn’t exactly plan or try for, we were excited. Together, we talked about all of the pros of having another child now. About the pseudo-symmetry that would result in the spacing of our three kids. About the fact that we would be able to travel again sooner. About the fact that we would be relatively young parents for all of our children.

And then because I couldn’t stand it, we went to buy a test. Surreptitiously, I zipped around the vast pharmacy looking for what I needed. I refused to ask for directions. And when we happened upon the right shelf, I clammed up and was overcome with school girl-esque embarrassment.

I gave myself a mini-internal-pep-talk. You are a thirty-one-year old married mother of two. This should not be embarrassing. In the slightest. And then Husband gave me an out loud talking-to. Point to the one you want and I will grab it, he offered. And so I did. And he did.

At home, I took the test. And it was negative.

Hmmmm.

Okay. I gave Husband the news flash. And he nodded and declared that this was not something about which we could be upset because it was not something we specifically hoped for. Totally logical. And guess what? We were not upset. In mere moments, we went back to our initial reasoning. It would be so prudent to wait. We have so much on our plate now with the kiddos and the forthcoming move and the publication of my book. Fine.

But this left me wondering something. Are we as humans wired in some way to want the very situations in which we find ourselves? To tell ourselves stories about how our actual reality is what is in fact best? How was I pumped about a potential pregnancy in one moment and utterly unfazed about the lack of that pregnancy five minutes later? Honestly, this baffles me.

And now for the title of this more brazen post. Is this something I should be blogging about in the first place? I know there is really no objective should when it comes to the amorphous ether of the blogosphere, that really anything goes, but that is not the case with me. Despite spitting quasi-personal bits and pieces of me into this swirling sink of cyberspace, I have pretty disciplined strictures about privacy that I apply every time I post. And I am not sure whether this post violates those strictures.

I don’t think it does. (And this is where I spin into a zone of self-rationalization, so hold on for the ride.) The nuts and bolts of this anecdote are personal, yes. I generally view issues of reproductive biology as exceedingly private matters, yes. Husband’s and my agenda of family planning is for us and us alone, yes.

But I think – I know – that this is about something bigger. Something important. Something universal. This is about the collision of assumption and actuality. Of appearance and reality. Of dreams and desires. This is about the tendency to shroud our personal situations in positivity. This is about our strong human instinct to weave promising tales from the fibers of our lives.

This, friends, is not just about a piece of plastic.

The other day, I told Mom about this post. Mom is a very smart woman. A private woman who once upon a time shuddered at the very idea of a blog. (Now? She reads every day and is my favorite reader. Don’t be offended. I love you too.)

I wrote a post about a pregnancy test, Mom. Do you think it’s okay to publish it?

She smiled and said sure. But then she wanted to know why I thought I was it was possible that I was pregnant. I told her that wasn’t really the point, that I was making a decidedly grander point and wanted to elicit some interesting comments about the collision of perception and reality and some fun stories about pregnancy tests.

Oh, I have some great pregnancy test stories, Mom said, grinning. At that, I promptly decided that this post is completely appropriate for public consumption.

Phew.

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So. Why is the process of purchasing a pregnancy test so embarrassing for me? Am I the only one? Why do we tend to convince ourselves that our actual situations are ideal? Is talking about the purchase and use of a pregnancy test on a public blog going too far? Am I invading my own privacy in some way by posting this? Do you ever run your blog ideas or other decisions by your mother? Any good pregnancy test stories to share?

My older Sister N is very very pregnant. Due any day. She has two little girls at home and she is expecting a boy. This reality is revolutionary for the Donnelley fam for two important reasons; (1) She will be the first of us to go the three-kids route; and (2) She will be the first to have a mixed-gender family. Up until recently, we were pretty convinced that we Donnelley girls produce either girls or boys.

Needless to say, we are all very excited. We are waiting for the word to hop a plane and head to Chicago to see her and her new little guy. Now that I have two babes of my own, I crave details I wouldn’t have years ago. I want to know about dilation and effacement and the spacing of contractions. I want to know about the ever-shifting list of baby names. I am a tiny bit obsessed with baby names.

Maybe it’s because my family has been through a lot in the past two years, but there is something about my sister’s pregnancy that makes me kind of sad. That something? That she is relatively far away. That I can’t witness firsthand her wacky cravings. That I can’t place my hand on her belly when I want to feel a kick hello. That I can’t look her in the eye when we talk about excitement and fear and crib colors.

I know that I have little to complain about. I live minutes from Mom and very close to 80% 75% of my sisters. I am lucky in that Sister N and her family come here fairly often, that our little girls get to play. But still.

There is a certain devastation in distance.

Even as I write this post, as I inch toward some undetermined conclusion, I try to determine what it’s all about. Is this really about family? Yes. It is. Even as I wade further into the land of adulthood, my identity is rooted firmly in family soil. Even though I am a Rowley, I will always be a Donnelley. Even though I am a wife and mother, I will always be a daughter and a sister. So, yes, this is about family.

This is about physical distance. This is about miles that separate. About tickets and rides. This is about phone calls instead of coffee dates. This is about imagination over observation.

This is about metaphorical distance. This is about separation. Natural and forced. This is about emotional and existential gulfs. This is about the passage of time, the evolution of selves, the complication of worlds.

This is about mourning the distance, the necessary distance, in whatever form it takes, that manifests as we get older and start leading our own lives. And welcoming new ones. Distance from people we love, and places we love. Distance from childhood. From the way things once were. From who we once were.

N – I am not sure you will read this, but if you do, please know that I am thinking about you and that I cannot wait for your call. Please know that even though I am not very good at expressing it sometimes, I miss you. I wish we were there with you, or that you were here with us. Especially now. I can’t wait to come see you, and him. I can’t wait for the distance to fade, to give you a hug, and to toast the expansion of this wild and woolly family of ours. I love you.

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Are you distant – physically or emotionally – from your family of origin or others you love? If so, how do you deal with this distance? Any seasoned advice about surviving life with three kids?

***On Friday, I wrote a post bemoaning my family’s latest tumble into sickness and asking you to leave a comment to help Haiti. I am thrilled and touched to announce that 148 comments were left, raising a total of $296 for the Red Cross. I announced on Twitter yesterday that if I received 150 comments ($300), I would double my donation. Well, this is my blog and I am going to round 148 to 150. I will donate $600 today. Thank you for your words and support. Oh, and we are all feeling much better. For now, at least!***