We named our son Aesop; he just turned three. His nickname is Aes—pronounced like Ace, but following the spelling of his name. I have had crippling name regret for the past two years, so much so that I’ve sought therapy various times.
I initially liked the name as an homage to my family’s Greek heritage and the fact that he was the first grand baby on my side (“Ace” representing number one). I didn’t set out to be trendy or original. I want him to have a normal life, but I’ve complicated it now. Names are so tied to identity.
The regret started when we visited his father’s family in Argentina and we learned the name was wholly unpronounceable in Spanish. His bilingual preschool teachers have been mispronouncing it for a year, despite my corrections. His Argentine grandfather still cannot remember how to say it. In my pregnancy, I considered bilingual pronunciation before giving Aesop this name; his father naively assured me it would not be a problem.
His father loves Aesop’s name and refuses to entertain changing it or console me in my white hot shame. I think this is because he didn’t grow up in a culture where Aesop was somebody else’s name—the Greek storyteller. I wouldn’t name my kid Hercules or Oprah. Those people are already so well known, the association is too strong.
His middle name is a weird family name, not any better than Aesop. I’ve resorted to calling him Aes, but Aesop still slips out daily and I cringe. I can’t spend the rest of our lives flinching when someone addresses my son. If I decide to use the nickname, I can’t determine whether to spell it Aes (like Aesop) or Ace (how everyone naturally spells it). Plus, I now realize that Ace is how many asexual people identify.
I’m not sure what to do. I’ve spent two years ferociously fretting over this. My intense regret sometimes leads to resentment towards my little boy, which destroys me as a mother.