The Starving Activist is the sometimes-home for words. AR Neal (that’s me) finds them, cultivates them, and leaves them here. Enjoy.

Mama's Losin' It: How I Named My Kid

This week's Mama's Losin' It prompts are, once again, inspiring:

1.) When you were in high school what was your favorite song? What did it mean to you then and what does it mean to you now?2.) 10 reasons you should be glad I didn't blog in my 20's. (Inspired by Wendy Aarons and friends)3.) If you had to select a color to pick your personality what would it be? (inspired byJamie Miles)4.) Inspired by Pinterest.5.) Share how you came up with your kids names!

The story below is how my son came to have his moniker:

The doctor said I had uterine fibroids. The pain, the passing out, the bleeding now had an explanation. His solution? Pregnancy. I had to go home and tell my husband that the doctor said I should get pregnant; the flow of bodily fluids that had been feeding the fibroids would be better directed to the child, should one take root inside me. Ah, yes--the catch: because of my condition there was no guarantee that I would get pregnant, which meant we needed to try frequently and often. He loved the idea, while I detested it. The marriage was not what I had been imagining, and to find out that this wasn't a bad dream was, to say the least, disheartening.I lived through the sex and indeed got pregnant. One early morning I, as most pregnant women do, had an unavoidable urge to go to the bathroom; while there, I realized that the liquid I was hearing was not as it should be. My water had broken, and early. Rushed to the hospital I was placed on bed rest: the doctors wanted to try and keep this child in for as long as possible; the woman in the room next to mine had been on bed rest for a month. I was settling in for the same sort of experience, but the child within me wanted out too much; two days of bed rest and he was fussing to escape. I gave birth at 29 weeks to a baby who was 12 inches long and one pound, 13 ounces. He was physically healthy but small. For a few days of his two months in the neonatal intensive care unit, he had no name. Because he was mine, I was going to name him; I did not ask his father's opinion.My father had died in a car accident while I was pregnant; this child came out looking just like him so it was fitting that part of his name would be in there somewhere. I decided that his middle name would be "Thomas," my dad's first name. But then I was at a loss. I went online--a new experience for me at that point in the mid-1990s--and searched for a name. And one day I found it: Khalil. I can no longer find the site upon which it came, but there the name was said to mean "my little friend." It was settled in my heart: Khalil Thomas.It has been nearly 18 years since his arrival and it has been difficult. His father died when he was three. I was a widow, and a single mom to a special needs child. Living with developmental disabilities in the house has been difficult and despite my best efforts, and the efforts of my second husband--who, by the way, is one of the greatest human beings alive; not just for taking us but just because--things have gotten more difficult over the years.I struggle to remember my little friend and pray for better days.

Daily Prompt: Pain & Prejudice

Shh...It's Still A Secret!