I’m reaching something of a personal quandary: the closer I get to the possibility of having children of my own, the more I don’t really know what I want them to call me.

The simple answer is Dad. Father, for formal. But that immediately brings to mind, for me, images of Father’s Day and neckties and aftershave. It reminds me of both the gender and class objections I have to these notions—we tend to stereotype dads as carrying a briefcase and going to work in a shirt and tie, something that denies the reality for blue-collar workers and bohemian femmes like me alike.

I know society will rather strongly suggest to any future children of mine that I’m Dad or Daddy or Father. But I can’t clearly delineate my gender for a child, let alone the baggage that comes with these holdovers of the old nuclear family. I’m as much femme as I am male, biology notwithstanding (though I should mention that the bit of weight I’m carrying thanks to this term is more in my hips and butt rather than stomach; I like that a bit).

So I don’t know how I’ll want to handle this. I suppose it depends on where this gender voyage lands me by that time. As it stands now, I would lean towards just calling me by my name.

Then there’s the question of my given name or Evi. I don’t know how to handle that, either.

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