Would a Momish by Any Other Name Smell Just as Sweet?

It will soon be two years since my husband and I got married. I still haven’t changed my last name.

Believe me when I tell you, I have one of those tough last names. I forever have to spell it out, sometimes several times, only to end up settling for some quasi version that’s close enough. It is a rare occasion when someone I haven’t known for over six years pronounces it correctly.

I always told myself and others that if I married a man with an easier last name than mine, I would change it in a heartbeat. My husband’s name is four letters long, all of which belong together. It’s easy to read, write and say. It even goes well with my first name!

So, why is it that one year and eight months of heartbeats later, I haven’t even made the slightest attempt to get the ball rolling? Even having a child hasn’t lit the fire under my ass as I once imagined it would. (Actually, the “with child” part happened even before I got married, but we won’t talk about that. Major sore spot with the elders.)

Last year, I purposely didn’t initiate the change for tax reasons. This year, the main reason is simply a severe lack of time and organization on my part. Honestly, for the most part, I just haven’t gotten around to it. There is so much crap that has to get done: bank accounts, mortgage, license, credit cards, logins, registrations, my own signature, the list is endless. Every time I think about it, I just get overwhelmed and mutter something about doing it later, next week, soon.

Still, I have to admit that the lack of time and organization, albeit it true, are also a very convenient and good excuse. As tax season is approaching again, I feel this clock ticking over my head and I just want to reach up and whack it so hard it ends up rotting on the dwarf planet Pluto.

I’m not ready yet!

I’ve been this person for 40 years! How can I just sign a piece of paper and give up my identity? I want to, really. I’m proud of my husband and our family. I want us to be fully united and identified as such. Yet, another part of me is terrified of losing something, a slice of myself maybe, in the process. And that small part, that tiny gnawing fear, turns out to have a mighty strong grip. So strong, that I find myself frozen like a deer caught in headlights and I can’t move.