You are five months pregnant. Your husband has cheated on you and you are getting divorced. He has moved across the country and you don't know if he'll ever be back. You are more than a little hurt/pissed/shocked, and all of the baby names the two of you liked are now out of the question. Oh, and you've just found out you're having a boy.
Your sister calls and suggests the name Ethan. You don't immediately hate it, and upon further review, it means "enduring" and "strong"...two words you've had to embrace. Perfect. Done. Lovely. He'll be Ethan.
Now for the middle name. You want to honor the afore-mentioned sister (an E herself) and match Ethan's middle initial to her's...J. No J's pop out at you immediately. This is tiring. Jorge, Jim, John, Jerry...nothing fits. Hold it. You are Irish. You've taken shots before. Jameson. Sounds a little snazzy/preppy, and even though you don't love whiskey, you can't name him Jagermeister. So that's that. He's EJ.
Uh oh. Last name. You know you are ditching your married name ASAP, and it's hard for you to even say it out loud at the moment. You have other things on your plate, so you block it from your mind for a few months. As your divorce proceedings ebb and flow, moments of calm and anger dictate solutions to the last name conundrum. You've found out that you can actually name your son anything you want, and when you are pissed or hurt eccentric names flow freely. Cute E. Pie. Aquaman. A symbol ala Prince circa 1993. When you are calm, you plan to stick with the status quo and use your married name. After all, you are a rule-follower and kids usually take their father's name.
Then it's time to give birth. You haven't really heard from your husband in months, save for a last-minute email asking if you want him to be in the room for the birth. No thanks. You've already assembled a crack-team of birth coaches who are all piled in the room singing your praises and whispering words of encouragement. It's like Lilith Fair...not at dude in sight, except for the one you're all trying to coax out. Then he comes. He is 7 lbs. 11 oz. and a real person. An instantaneous true love. He's EJ. You snuggle and cuddle and cry...partially from joy and partially from fear that you have no idea what you're doing and the hospital will only offer babysitting services for the next two days.
You wake up the next morning and it's crunch time. The official people need to know his official name. A woman walks in with an offical-looking clipboard. "Can you please give me your son's full name?" EJ. "And his last name?" Ummmm. "Well, is his father in the picture?" Not right now. "Do you know the father?" Yes....I stopped turning tricks years ago (awkward silence). "You know what, why don't I come back in an hour?" Yes, please, that will be great (I don't like you, official lady!).
Just then, a nurse wheels EJ in from the babysitting room. He is wrapped up and you swear he makes a cooing noise as you snuggle him into your chest. For the first time in this name game, you think about him as a boy and then a man whose name and legacy are important and will far outlive you and the memory of this petty divorce. It's not time for bitterness. He was a planned baby, and even though your marriage is over, you have to honor it for his sake. Whoa, Whoa...hold on though...you just pushed this baby out of your body all on your own! You'll be doing everything for this little nugget, and then one day you'll have to hear him ask you why you have a different last name? No, no, no, nu uh, no. Back to square one. But wait, you majored in journalism. You know a little bit about words and stuff. Eureka! The hypen. EJK-M. Everyone wins.
The official lady comes back in. You find your words again and spell out his full name. "Boy, that's long." Yes, and it's wonderful.
EJ's name is long and wonderful and slightly ridiculous-cool and one day, EJ can decide to keep, shorten, or change it. At least then it will be his choice. He deserves that.
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