This morning at the temple initiatory, most of my names were simply surnames and this struck me in a way that it can only strike a sleep deprived and anxiously addled brain that resides in the cranium of a lady still very much postpartum: I just spent almost nine months obsessing over my baby’s name… and maybe it doesn’t even matter.
Was I sad for these women without first names, without things for me to call them? Or was it more a deep respect a la the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier? Did their lack of moniker and/or our unknowing make them revered? Or were they just ladies with indecipherable birth certificates?
Jude. Did we choose it right? People say to me, “I love that name.” “He’s such a Jude.” I say back, “Really?” and, “Really???” Because I fretted a bit on committing to it. Or even calling him by it for that matter. For the first few weeks, I called him just this: “baby.” How clever and creative of me right? But that’s what he was, that’s all he looked like. Calling him anything would have made his ethereal perfection seem too worldly, and any name was too old, too lawyerish, to actorish, too biblical, too silly, too trendy, too formal…
Do we become our names, or do our names become us? Was it easy for you to name you children? Should whimsy and taste be the only factors taken into consideration, or do we attempt to name the adult we think we’ll raise? What about nicknames? What’s in a name? Or does it really even matter? Is this a silly question only made anxious by aforementioned addled mommy-brain?
But I’m curious, do you love your name?
I do mine. Brooke. And I love Jude’s name too. Now.