When my partner and I welcomed our sons into the world, we were not married and had no intention of tying the knot. I had no desire to change my last name, ever. In fact, I can’t recall a moment in my life where I imagined myself adopting a different name. Regardless of marriage or kids, that was simply not on my radar.
Fast forward to the present: I’m now married with children, and my last name remains unchanged. Our sons have hyphenated names that reflect both of our legacies, just as I always envisioned. My husband, Alex, has been incredibly supportive of my choice not to adopt his surname. He even joked that my last name worked better as the latter part of our kids’ names. It’s 2021, and I recognize how fortunate I am to have a partner who respects my decisions.
As we chose names for our boys, I felt a swell of pride knowing my surname was the second in their hyphenated names. It felt modern and truly representative of our family dynamics. However, as our eldest son approaches the end of preschool—though we still have about 18 months left—I find myself grappling with a strange urge to hyphenate my own name to align with theirs.
This impulse is confusing. On one hand, it seems practical; on the other, it challenges the values I’ve held dear. I’ve always firmly believed that I shouldn’t have to change my name for anyone, and I’ve spent considerable time debating the outdated notion that women must adopt their husband’s surname. I’ve even looked down on men who dismiss my views with outdated reasoning that makes it hard to take them seriously.
Yet, I wouldn’t consider changing my last name for just anyone. These are my kids we’re talking about. I carried them, endured the physical changes, and experienced the emotional rollercoaster of pregnancy. I have scars from bringing them into this world. Perhaps this desire to change my name stems from a need to regain a sense of control as I watch my children grow more independent. As my oldest prepares for the next exciting chapter of his life—one that signifies his journey without me—I wrestle with the bittersweet nature of letting go.
Isn’t that the essence of parenting? Just a few years in, and I already see how quickly time flies. One moment, you’re bringing home your newborn, and the next, you’re planning for their college education.
When my husband asked me why I felt this way, I couldn’t articulate an answer. But as I spoke, tears welled up in my eyes. “They’re my kids, and I want us to have something that connects us when they venture into the world.”
These feelings have manifested in dreams where I lose my teeth, leaving me bewildered and anxious. Initially, I thought it was a signal to visit the dentist, but now I see it as a reflection of the constant transitions of parenthood. It’s astonishing how people have made it seem effortless for generations, to send part of your heart out into the world, unaware of the depth of love and effort invested in raising them.
But even more remarkable is the resilience we all demonstrate in the face of this journey.
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In summary, the journey of motherhood is filled with conflicting emotions, the need for connection, and the challenge of letting go. As I contemplate a change in my last name, I realize it’s about more than tradition; it’s about family ties and the love that binds us together.