I grew up with a last name that I loathed. Only six letters, but with French origin, and we know how the French can turn six letters into twenty. It was simple enough if you heard ME pronounce it, but reading it cold off of a slip of paper—best of luck. My name was butchered so frequently that on the occasion when someone got it right, I would actually be taken aback.
Catch, on the other hand, has the easiest last name in the world. Along the lines of Smith or Jones. I have never heard anyone mispronounce her last name.
After our wedding, I was chomping at the bit to change my name. I couldn’t get to the social security office fast enough. Catch was shocked. We hadn’t really discussed a name change, and I think she assumed that I would never change my name because I have such strong ties to my mom.
I did think about my mom for a moment before I skipped off to the DMV. She never changed her name back to her maiden name after she divorced my father so that the two of us would have the same last name when I was growing up, so I realized I should at least ASK if she had an issue with the switch. She didn’t, and I continued merrily on my way.
I really wish I could tell you my “new” last name because it is truly fitting of a redhead named Molly. I LOVE it. As far as ditching the old French jumble goes, non, je ne regrette rien.
It used to be that if I googled my name (first and last), I could find only one or two other people in the country who shared it with me. That would have been fine if I was the kind of person who liked to stand out, but I prefer a bit of (perceived) anonymity. Now, there are THOUSANDS of results for my name. I get to blend in. I get to be lost in a sea of search engine results.
It’s wonderful.
I often wonder how people who name their children Peaches or Sky Blue or Courderoy Jumper will feel about their names as they get older. Forget childhood teasing—let’s talk workplace. Resumes. Interviews. Interacting with clients.
Catch and I frequently joke that the name Molly conjures two things: 1) the little sister in every other Disney film, or 2) someone’s childhood dog. “I had a dog named Molly!” I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard that. Even so, I like my name. I really do.
We’ve discussed baby names, of course. It’s hard not to go through this process and daydream a bit about names.
When I was about 22, my dad showed up at my door with a kitten. As my roommate and I swooned over the teeny wittle fuzzy kitten, my father demanded that we give him, “a good, strong, 1-syllable masculine name.”* (This from the man who wanted to name my half brother Connagher.)
I think about that conversation with my dad sometimes. It’s amazing the responsibility that comes with naming a child. I hope someday we have a chance to give our kid a solid name.
*The cat was named Sam. We called him Sammy. It suited him.
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