When I was pregnant with Darius, Neville and I had a battle royale over naming him. I wanted a Christian name. He wanted a Persian name. Why? That isn't the point. We both wanted what the other didn't and were prepared to name our child "Number One" than let the other person win. It wasn't a pretty time in our lives. We proved during those nine months that we are exceptionally selfish people. Maturity, it appears, isn't our strong suit.
Darius wasn't actually named until about 45 minutes before we were discharged from the hospital. The records lady had come by four times in twelve hours to find out if we had settled on a name. And it wasn't until she threatened to pull my discharge that we finally agreed.
Darius. As in dare-ree-us. It is a family name of Neville's. One diff. They pronounce it da-rye-us. I didn't care. Neville doesn't have that much family. I could tell people that was the ethnic pronounciation of the name (I know, I'm a terrible person). I figured that 10 people may call him Da-rye-us but the rest of the world would call him Dare-ree-us. And I would win. And frankly, winning was all that mattered. So I conceeded. And our baby boy became Darius.
For the last 3.5 years, Darius has remained Dare-ree-us. At doctor's visits. At school. With my family. With friends. Neville did his best to correct others to call him Da-rye-us. But alas I was always won. Darius. Dare-ree-us. Triumph. Sweet victory.
Yesterday, my precious boy told me that he wants to be called Da-rye-us. WHAT?? Uh. I never considered him wanting to go by his father's version. He's a momma's boy to the core. The whole frickin world except for those 10 people that insist on calling him by his ethnic name have it right. I had won, right?
So I did only what any hyper-competitive parent would do. I told my kid that Santa wouldn't come to Da-rye-us's house since daddy doesn't believe in Christmas. But Santa would come to Dare-ree-us's house since mommy believes. Can you believe it? Because I can barely look at myself today.
So, my little boy. When the psychotherapist questions you about your lack of self-identity, you have this confession from your mom to point to the root cause. You sold out your dad because of the promise of Christmas presents. If you turn out to be something less than stellar in life, you have me to blame.
And for the record, I'll be putting coal in my own stocking.
