Mason!

It's the name that took months and months to decide upon. It cost me dozens of hours of searching online and through baby books, making lists, and deciding for sure and then changing my mind. I worried. I panicked. I cried. I was sure that my child would be nameless at birth. He was almost Isaac and Noah and Spencer and Miles and Jonas.

Finally, it's official, he knows his name. Actually, he's known his name for about a week. I know this because I've been doing some little experiments. I give him a toy as a distraction. I say "Mason!" and he looks away from the toy and smiles at me. I say "banana" to the back of his head. Nothing. "Frog". Nothing. "Microwave". Still, nothing. So I'm almost positive that he knows his name and he's okay with it. He doesn't hate it. The only problem is, now I know when he's trying to ignore me. When I say his name and he doesn't look up from his butterflies or his crinkly bug, that's when he's just too busy to be bothered.

But my months of debating and driving my pregnant self crazy over his name have finally paid off. He's Mason... a name I loved because it has all the letters of my last name in it. A name I loved because George didn't instantly veto it. A name I love now because it really fits him. He's definitely not a Spencer or an Isaac.

And now, he knows it.