The following week the message read, "Your fetus is now about the size of a kumquat."
For some reason, likely hormonal, that didn't sit well with me. I stopped the email subscription and continued referring to the little grape. Even when my belly swelled to a size more fairly described as watermelon-like, I called the baby the little grape.
I'd had a list of girl names forever, but boys' names somehow proved tricky. The little grape was born on a Friday, and by Monday, when the clerk had called a dozen times demanding the birth certificate, I still had a running list entitled "Possible Grape Names" on the tray by my hospital bed. By then the nurses had given up on asking what his name was and had begun referring to my infant son as The Grape.
He got a real name that afternoon.
But R. and I still call him the Grape sometimes.