Yesterday marked 99 days until Sarge and I get married. Not long after I realised we are down to double-digits, I shared the countdown on Facebook, and then I read this article about changing your last name after marriage. Or not. I saw it on a friend’s wall (as you do) and posted it on mine, with this preamble:
‘I share this as someone who would never drop my last name. Because it’s mine. And I love it. And if I did, it would never get to anyone else. That’s a big deal to me. My whole heart. So I’m not dropping, only adding. And it means the world that (Sarge) is hyphenating like I am. So our children can be like both of us, inside and out.’
When we first talked about getting married, my only issue was wanting to carry on my name. And I thought, if that’s my only issue, I’ve found the right person.
We talked about our options, and then we went over them again. Might have reached an impasse when I didn’t want something completely new and penguin-related.
‘If you’re adding my name, I’ll add your name. We are equals.’
And that’s when ‘if’ became ‘when’.
I have nothing against women who change their name. Or women who don’t at all. What we are called doesn’t matter, unless and until it means something to us.
Changing, or adding to your name is a choice. And just because I want to keep my name doesn’t mean I won’t want to share my husband’s. I’m greedy like that. Or something.
I figure if we’re going to share a life together, we can share a name. Or two.