I always say there’s nothing about my past that I’d change. I am very aware that had I done things differently, even by not making the mistakes I made, I may not have had my beautiful son, and I may not have met my partner.

However, there is one thing. One thing which probably seems trivially unimportant to most people, but which makes me feel horrible to the pit of my stomach every time I think about it.

I wish I had given my son my surname.

At the time, I didn’t know any better. I just thought it was how things were done. As time goes on it makes me feel physically sick. When mothers are the ones who carry babies for nine months and then endure hours of physical labour, not to mention most of the time being the ones who do the vast majority of work regarding caring for those babies and the children they become, why do men get all the credit, by having the societal right to stamp them with their names? It’s like none of the work we do – pregnancy, childbirth, rearing – none of that means a thing because as soon as a baby is born it becomes the father’s, his property, indelibly marked with his surname.

I wish I had known then what I know now. I wish I had stood up to his father (my ex), insisted that as we were not married and I was the one who had given birth (and thus the one with the final legal say in such matters) that my son would have my surname. I feel erased. I feel like nothing I did, the horrible experience I had of pregnancy, the twelve hours of excruciating labour, the three and a half years I have been my son’s primary carer, none of it means a damn because he is his dad’s son.

He knows he has a middle name and a surname, and he knows what they are. He knows that Daddy has the same name as him, and that I do not. You try telling me that isn’t having an affect on him psychologically, that he isn’t feeling more connected to his father because they have the same name. I double dog dare you.

I’m there with him all day, yes, and I do 99% of his ‘raising’ but he doesn’t understand that. As far as he’s concerned that’s my job, it’s what I’m here for. His name is something he can draw a clear and tangible connection from. Names have meaning. Especially in Western society, shared names mean family.

If I could change it, I’d do it in a bloody heartbeat. He is my son, I carried him and birthed him and fed him from my own breast, and I have been caring for him full-time since the day he was born, and it makes sense that he should have my name. Unfortunately it’s not something that can be done without my ex’s permission and well, don’t make me laugh. My ex wouldn’t let me consider it even when we were together, when our son was born. There is no way on this earth that he’d give up his ‘ownership’ of our son by allowing a name change (or even the compromise of the addition of my name), because it’s just another thing he holds over me.

My son is my world. I’ve dedicated my life to raising him since the beginning and I’m doing a damn good job of it, and it utterly tears me apart that we don’t even share that simple connection of a family name.

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