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: your name would be 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 her 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 completely. 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 preschool and to save us a spot on the City Hall balcony to watch the procession every September," I remember we joked with your father.

With the order of the surnames, you made it harder for us. Both sounded good in any position and it was hard for us to decide which of the two should go before the other. At first, we thought the best way to resolve it was by tossing a coin in the air, but we soon discarded 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 having Christmas leftovers for dinner, we devised the perfect plan: you would decide it yourself. If you decided to be born on an even day, you would carry your mother's surname first. If you decided to be born on an odd day, your father's. They had told us 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 know if it would be my honor to preserve the lineage or not.

In the end, everything we had plotted was of no use. The decision was made in the middle of a corridor 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 that everything was going on the right track: the contractions were rhythmic and your heartbeat sounded vigorous. A midwife came to look for us to transfer us to the delivery room and halfway there she asked us the question: "What will she be called?". She was carrying a pen and a form in her hands. "Mercè", I think your father and I said practically at the same time. "And the surname?" A silence fell. We were dying to meet you and we 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 was 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 green flower blanket 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 mobile to take our first family selfie.