It's almost impossible to gauge the newest little one's temperament at this point, so I'm flying by the seat of my pants to pick something. After agonizing over an appropriate literature-based pseudonym, I finally exhausted my already-exhausted brain and waltzed over to my bookcase--the one where I keep my absolute favorite books of all times. There, on the shelf, my eyes settled on one of a handful of books I can honestly say I could read ad naseum: devour it, from page one to the final words, then turn back to the front and start all over again.
The book is Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood. I read it for the first time when I was pregnant with Jo; it was a gift from a fellow Bibliophile and Southern fiction fan who to this day likes to drop me a list of her top ten annual reads in her Christmas cards. Bloated with a child and more free time than I would ever have on my hands again, I cracked the cover expecting a breezy summer read. What I found was anything but. If you've ever read the book, you know what I'm talking about. And no, having seen the movie does not count.
A conservative estimate puts the number of my total readings somewhere around ten. I'm on my fourth copy of the book. Unwilling--no, unable--to follow my own rule of never loaning out something I'd hate to lose, I continually pass on my own copy, urging people to read it. Usually, it does not come back. I'd like to think that's because it becomes too dear to the borrower.
Therefore, in honor of nothing more than a book I love and a narrator who has both warmed and broken my heart countless times, I'm choosing the alias Siddalee for our new baby girl.