Your surname or mine? The dilemma of registering a child at the Civil Registry

BarcelonaWhen they told us you were going to be a girl, we were clear: you would be called Mercè. Like the co-patron saint of your city and the most universal Catalan writer. You are the first Mercè in the family and one of the few babies born in 2026 who can celebrate their name day dancing with the Giants of El Pi and the Giants of the City. The reaction of those around us when we announced it convinced us once and for all. We realized that, besides Joseps, Joans, and Maries, there used to be Mercès in every home too. Everyone told us with a smile that they had a grandmother or an aunt with that name, but that they didn't know any girl who was named like you. "We'll tell Collboni to give us extra points to get into the nursery school and to save us a spot on the City Hall balcony to watch the procession every September," I remember we said, joking with your father.

With the order of the surnames, you made it harder for us. Both sounded good in either position and we found it difficult to decide which of the two should go before the other. At first, we thought the best way to solve it was by flipping a coin, but we soon dismissed the idea. It didn't seem very sensible to us that the face of a monarch condemned to ostracism should decide your future. Then we speculated with the idea of writing each surname on a little piece of paper and having an innocent hand decide for us. But time kept passing and the decision remained pending.

Until one night, while eating the leftovers from Christmas dinner, we devised the perfect plan: you would decide it yourself. If you decided to be born on an even-numbered day, you would take your mother's surname first. If you decided to be born on an odd-numbered day, your father's. We had been told you would come into the world in mid-January and I confess that, as the date approached, I would wake up looking at the calendar to see if I would have the honor of preserving the lineage or not.

In the end, everything we had plotted was for nothing. The decision was made in the middle of a hallway at the Hospital del Mar. Your father actually resolved it.

It had already been many hours since we had been sent to the emergency room after a routine check-up, and it seemed like everything was going well: the contractions were rhythmic and your heartbeat sounded vigorous. A midwife came to pick us up to take us to the delivery room, and halfway there, she asked us the question: "What will her name be?". She was holding a pen and a form in her hands. "Mercè", I think your father and I said almost at the same time. "And her last name?" A silence fell. We were dying to meet you and had lost track of time. We didn't know if we would celebrate your birthday on January 27th or 28th, but your father answered before the response could be cut short by one of my moans.

Shortly after, you were with us. You were born with your eyes wide open and with a lot of character. We couldn't stop looking at you, wrapped in a little blanket with green flowers that we keep inside a box with your first outfit. From the hospital, we were able to register you at the Civil Registry that same day. "After everything you've suffered, there was only one correct order," your father told me before picking up his phone to take our first family selfie.