Since my younger daughter was about one month old, I’ve wanted to change her name. I really thought I was having a boy. I had that maternal sixth sense. I knew we were having a son. His name was Cash. I loved it. Cool, simple and strong.
Before I gave birth, we decided on a girl’s name. My husband loved the name Presley. I thought it was cute and what did it matter anyway because I would soon be holding my darling Cash in my arms. But instead of Cash, suddenly I was nursing Presley, my beautiful little girl.
The first several weeks were a fog in which I just tried to survive sleep deprivation, terrible mastitis and a toddler who wasn’t adjusting well to a sibling (didn’t matter if it was Cash or Presley to her, this baby was just taking up way too much of my time). Finally I reemerged and realized that I just wasn’t in love with my daughter’s name. So I tried to suppress it for five months (why does this approach never work?) and then I finally got up the courage to talk to my husband about it.
He wasn’t overjoyed. He loves the name Presley. Even so, he said he was willing to change it. But altering her birth certificate feels like we are erasing a part of her. It just doesn’t feel right to us.
So we are nicknaming her Summer. We both love the name and in many ways, it suits her so perfectly. She glows with such warmth and happiness. It’s my favorite season and it just feels like her. In the end, she’ll be more Presley to some, more Summer to others but no matter what she’s called, she’s perfect.