The words bounced and echoed through my head today as I heard them shouted through the room. There I was, in a small entryway surrounded by 40-50 people and children, waiting to enter the "Easter Bash". I had my camera in one hand and my sunglasses in the other. My three year old was laying on the floor, pretending to be a frog. My husband was talking about how he wished he hadn't have gotten his boots all muddy before we left. To my right is my pregnant friend and her daughter.
"Corbin! You have to hold your daddy's hand when you go in, or you might get run over."
Please stop talking. Please stop saying that name.
That name. I normally never hear it called out from another parent. I remember the first time I ever heard it called out.
I was swimming with my best friend, her husband, daughter, and Monkey about two years ago. There was a grandmother there with her family and she called for her grandson. It was so emotional for me, I had to go over and talk to them. I started out by saying my son's name was also Corbin and how I never meet other kids with the name. They, of course, asked how old he was. I stumbled over my words as I explained my story. She gave me "the eyes". You know, the eyes of pity. Then she went on to explain that her Corbin was born premature and struggled at first after birth. We chatted a short while before I went my way.
It has been years since I have heard that name and it is just as shocking now as it was then. I couldn't stop watching that little boy; wondering if he was healthy, wondering if he was just small for his age or if he struggled after birth as well.
It seems I was meant to see him, as we saw him again at the grocery store, immediately after the Easter event. I didn't approach the parents, I just watched him.
Corbin. What a nice name.