© 2004 Brian Hodges - Please do not remove the copyright from this essay

omebody help me wrap my head around this.  Not only were Lauren and I allowed to keep the baby girl we gave birth to seven months ago, but the United States government also gave us permission, in fact encouraged us, to give her a name.  Then without any fanfare or bureaucratic red tape they sent us an official piece of paper certifying that the name we’d picked out, Allison, was the name our daughter would have for the rest of her life.  Nobody questioned us.  Nobody sent a letter saying we had utilized more than the permitted number of letters according to Pennsylvania Code THX: 11-38.  Nobody called to inform us that if we failed to fill out form FU-90 within thirty days, our daughter’s name would be automatically changed to Eunice.  We simply said, “This is the name we want,” and they said, “Whatever.  Next!”

A year ago, we couldn’t even rent a car without filling out ten extra forms.  How is it we’ve been given absolute power to affect another person’s entire life through a single word and nobody even asked if we wanted the extended warranty?  We could have yelled out Gertrude or Agatha or Princess Blinkybelle for that matter.  And the president of the Bureau of Baby Names wouldn’t have even called a neighboring precinct for verification before slamming down his official government stamp and sealing our daughter’s fate forever.  Does that sound like the Big Brother we all grew up with?  I mean… forever! 

For two years before we even started trying to get pregnant, Lauren and I spent hours upon hours throwing names back and forth.  We had traditional names like Luke and Audrey, trendy names like Madison and Parker, Biblical names like Noah and Isaac and even a few wild cards like Tuesday and Princess Blinkybelle.  Just kidding.  I never liked the name Audrey.  I guess it never occurred to us that we would eventually have to pick one of those names and stick with it.  I mean, when I was a kid and our dog Mitzi wandered off to visit the old man down the street, he always called her Champ.  Years later I named my cat Katie for three months until I found out she was actually a boy, at which point I changed it to Bailey.  That was the beauty of pet names.  They were only as permanent as the situation dictated.

So when we said “Allison” to the midwife, I half-expected her to take the same approach my mom did when I wanted to name my dog Skeletor: “Okay, well you just think about that for awhile and get back to me.” 

Instead, the midwife wrote it down on her form and six weeks later we had a notarized certificate with Allison’s name on it.  There was no opportunity to go back and say, “You know what, she really doesn’t look like an Allison.  Maybe we should call her Beth instead.” 

But seven months later, with the exception of my in-laws who seem determined to drop the nickname Ali on her (which is another story for another time), everybody else on earth still calls my daughter by the name Lauren and I picked out.  The one that (and I can’t stress this enough) the government let us pick out…  for-EVER! 

Yes I know what you’re going to say.  The Bureau of Name Changes is always at our disposal, and if I’m really that determined to change Allison’s name to Princess Blinkybelle, they’ll go to the trouble of alerting Family Crisis Intervention for me.

Fortunately for everyone, Allison has grown into her name.  We look at her and just say, “Of course.”  It gives us confidence as we look forward to our future children, though I’m not sure if that’s a good thing.  I won’t tell you what they are, but each successive name we’ve picked out gets progressively more and more… unique.  I can’t help but wonder if Lauren and I are abusing the absolute power the government has given us.  The rational side of me thinks we should have a system of checks and balances for new parents.  Lauren and I at least have some discipline, but I know somewhere out there, some future dad is getting an idea from this article and just might name one of his kids (…gasp…) Audrey!