When I was pregnant there was a list of questions I answered approximately 6 times a day: When are you due? Is this your first baby? Is it a boy or a girl? What's his name?
That last question was always the kicker. People OBSESS over what to name their babies. I know people who have held heated debates over baby names– deliberating for months. It's nuts! We were lucky in that we had a girl name and boy name picked out the week we knew we were having a baby — and we stuck with them throughout. We never strayed from Colt Edmund Hood. But I really don't understand this craze over baby names. There are books of baby names. And I have yet to find a piece of baby equipment or clothing that cannot be personalized. (I am not pointing fingers here, I am totally guilty of wanting everything to say "Colt" on it. It's cute. Don't judge me.)
But there is this massive responsibility that comes with giving something a name. It's an identity. Something you'll be called your entire life. I have always really liked my name. Sarah. Even when I had to use my last initial my entire childhood because there was ALWAYS another Sarah. Sarah M. Sarah Martin. Since 1982.
But for all the effort and energy and thought that goes into naming a baby – that name doesn't actually stick around forever. Even Colt probably thinks his name is Buddy. Or Trouble. And I'm sure his friends will give him another nickname or two somewhere down the line. Two and a half years ago I went from Sarah Martin to Sarah Hood (a.k.a. That crazy girl who married Jeff). But I've also been known at various times as Princess, Hey Waitress!, Tom's Little Sister, and Lovebug.
Last weekend I went to two baby showers for friends, and while I ate petit fours with little blue booties on them and played "Name the Mystery Baby Food" and chatted with other moms about daycare and nap time and potty training I realized that my most recent name change might be my favorite yet.
Hello. My name is Colt's Mama.