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

BarcelonaWhen we were told that you would 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 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 finally convinced us. 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 daycare and to save us a spot on the City Hall balcony to watch the procession every September," I remember we said jokingly 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 came before the other. At first, we thought the best way to solve 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. Later, 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 dinner with the leftovers from Christmas lunch, 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 that 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 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 hallway at the Hospital del Mar. Your father actually resolved it.

We had already been sent to the emergency room for many hours after a routine check-up and it seemed that everything was on the right track: the contractions were rhythmic and your heartbeat sounded vigorous. A midwife came to get us to take us to the delivery room and halfway there she asked us the question: "What will her name be?". 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 what about 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 answer was cut short by one of my groans.

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 floral blanket that we keep in 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 have suffered, there was only one correct order," your father told me before picking up his mobile phone to take our first family selfie.