glittering ovenbird My daughter is three months old, which is not the age my daughter is. And her name is not my daughter’s name, and I’m holding her hand while we wait in line for a cake smash photo shoot, though it is not my daughter’s birthday, or anyone’s birthday. And the studio is flashing with lights from a disco ball, and the photographer sits my daughter on a sheet of white seamless paper with a pink unicorn cake in front of her, and he fills her mouth with glitter. “Won’t she choke?” I ask, but he waves away my concern. He does this all the time. She coughs sparkles into the air while the camera snaps away. I suddenly realize that in three months of having her earth side I’ve never once used her real name, opting instead for “Sweetie” or “Honey” or “Kiddo.” I’m mortified, because surely this makes me a terrible mother. How will she learn to respond to her name if I never say it out loud? It takes me a second to remember the two syllables I attached to my daughter when she was born. I say them out loud and they feel wrong on my tongue. The photographer hands me my photographs—three slick 8x10s. My daughter’s face is obscured by a cloud of glitter. “They’re beautiful,” I say, and walk away, mumbling my daughter’s unused name under my breath, hoping it will stick to her, and make her shine. 261020 what's it to you? who go blather from