The Wrong Monogram

In clearing my dresser this morning to dust, I picked up this teething ring and realized the story might be of interest to my kids -- that is, if I haven't already told them. I never can remember.

The shot is not the best, but it's the best of the 3 or 4 I took. My mother told me through the years that the ring is made of bone. Now that I think of it, I find that rather odd. Did she really want me teething on an old bone? I really think it's probably white Bakelite, which was a popular ornamental predecessor to plastic, used in the 50's. Attached to the ring is a hollow sterling heart with my initials engraved on it -- rather, my temporary initials: MEA.

Story has it that you could hear my dad singing, "Love and Marriage" through the halls of the Maternity Ward on the day I was born. Mother said she would hear the "ding" of the elevator, then Daddy's voice hailing Love and Marriage. (My dad was really good at a number of things; singing was not one of them.)

I was a baby who was not supposed to be born. After my older sister was born, mother had an unsuccessful pregnancy and was unable to conceive for quite some time after. When I was born, Mother and Daddy truly thought I was the last baby they'd have. Because my sister was named for mother, and it didn't look as if they would have a boy, Mother wanted to include Dad's name into mine. They both agreed they wanted my first name to be, Margaret. Mother wanted my middle name to be, Allen, which was Dad's middle name. Dad, in a rare humble moment, felt it should be more feminine, and wanted my middle to be, Ellen.

When I was born, Dad made a quick call to the paper, where he was City Editor. He got my birth announcement into the paper quickly with the name, Margaret Ellen. Mother would smile with irony when she told this story. Daddy may have had the public power, but Mom had the true power. When he returned to the office, she completed the paperwork for my birth certificate, giving me the name, Margaret Allen.

The teething ring was apparently a gift from someone who had read the birth announcement.

As I grew up, my parents had this gentle argument over which was my real middle name. As for me, I would pick and choose as my mood dictated. Some days I was Margaret Allen, some days, Margaret Ellen.

My senior year of high school, my guidance counselor called me to her office. I walked in, puzzled as to why I had been called. After asking me to have a seat, she gestured to two neat stacks of paper on her desk. "Today," she said, "is the day you will choose your middle name."

I had finally reached the point in my life at which I valued the novelty of having a guy name, and did not need it to be "normal." Plus, legally, it was Allen all along. I've enjoyed being Margaret Allen ever since.

Footnote. Today my legal name is Margaret Allen Blackwell. I chose to use the middle name rather than my maiden name. I like the Allen so well, and it still reflects my dad, and I don't have to spell it for folks as I would my maiden name. The initial is the same so it all works out.

The teething ring is my reminder of the story when my dad grandstanded for power and Mother quietly made things happen behind the scenes. Maybe it was the first time she did this, but it certainly was not the last.