Babies are the best thing in the world. Seriously delicious. Not in a ‘Quiverfull- every-one-is-a-blessing-so-let-God-open-the-womb-and-have-25-children’ kind of way, but because they have fluffly head and they smell good. So, on that note we have…
a baby! A baby called Micah, to be precise. He is delicious and I think I’ll keep him. He was a teeny tiny 5 pound 11 ounces, which is what happens when your pregnancy cravings consist of celery and plain mineral water. He was also a few weeks early, as I tend not to cook babies properly.
Naming him was tricky. As in, I hated every name that came up. Eventually ‘doesn’t make me want to vomit’ became my yardstick, which is setting the bar quite low, I realise. Micah was one of those names (as well as River and Digger. Turns out Digger isn’t actually a name. Who knew?) but when it dawned on me that he was an Old Testament prophet, the possibility that I may be naming my child after a book full of infanticide and incest and stoning did give me pause for though. I was thrilled to realise that Micah is a fabulous part of the Old Testament. No killing babies or smiting entire cities; yay! And when I realised that Micah 6:8 contains
‘He has showed you, O man, what is good. And what does the LORD require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God’
which is one of the two parts of the Bible that I can actually remember, I decided that we would go with Micah. He is going to have to be a human rights lawyer. No arguments.