I remember the moment vividly. Husband and I sit at the bar in a restaurant downtown. It is Saturday and we indulge in an afternoon cocktail. (Oh, the good old days of weekend wandering sans wee ones.) I turn to him and say something.

“You do know that when we get married I’m not taking your name.”

A bit provocative, huh? And also more than a bit presumptuous because we are not even engaged. In fact, we won’t be for over a year, but we lovebirds started talking about forever only a few months into our romance, so I figure this name topic is fair game. Fine.

And so. I say this. And I wait for not-yet-Husband’s response. He sips from his tall glass of beer, pins me with his blue eyes, and asks me why. Why do I want to keep my name? At once shocked and encouraged that this will be a conversation instead of a confrontation, I do my best to answer him. I want to keep my name because it’s my name and always will be. I will not suddenly morph into a new person on my wedding day, so why must I change my name? I think it’s a bit sexist to assume that we women should drop such a pivotal part of our identity just because we marry. My sisters aren’t changing their names, so why should I? Clumsily, I go on and on and on and on and then it occurs to me to ask whether he would want me to take his name. And, if so, why.

And Husband says that he always assumed that whomever he married would take his last name. That this was what he had seen go on around him and that he liked the idea of parents having the same name as their kids. And then he says something amazing. He says that if I don’t want to change my name, he would be okay with that. He would respect my decision even if he didn’t fully understand it.

Good man. Marriage-worthy man.

Fast forward a fair bit of time. Husband and I are happily engaged. We are a week out from our wedding. We are in line at City Hall waiting to get our wedding license. When it is our turn, we walk up to the glass. The young lady asks us some questions. She wants to know our names. And then she asks what my married name will be. And I do something that to this day surprises me and makes me smile.

“My married name is Rowley.”

I say these words, startling myself and look over at my beaming and befuddled man. “Really?” he asks. “Really,” I say. He asks me why and I tell him because it feels right. Because it makes sense. Suddenly, all of those reasons, those crisp reasons carefully culled, have evaporated and I am a Rowley. And happily so.

I always told myself that if I ever did anything professionally noteworthy, I would stick to my maiden name. And when the time came when I had to decide on my publishing name, I had a very hard time. Up until the very last minute my authorial name was to be Aidan Donnelley. But at the last second, I switched things up and made what I think was the right decision. Aidan Donnelley Rowley. Given. Maiden. Married. Why? Because that’s who I am. Part Donnelley girl. Part Rowley woman. My husband’s wife. My girls’ mother.

My own person.

And so. Because of my own experience playing the name game, I am very interested in this question. This question of whether, upon marriage, women change their names. Whether they do so willingly and without thought. Or whether they do so begrudgingly because it is expected. I am interested in how things are changing in the way this game is played. How couples are combining and hyphenating names. I am interested in how all of this affects children whose names are the same as, or different than, their parents. I am interested in what happens upon divorce when someone is left with a name they no longer feel is theirs. I am interested in how all of these name questions affect human identity because I think they do. And significantly.

Patently, I am interested in many things here. Interested enough to use the word ‘interested’ eight times in the last several sentences. The editor in me is tempted to go back and swap a few of these out. Replace ‘interested’ with ‘curious’ or ‘intrigued,’ but that would take time and I would rather get this conversation started.

And so I will.

______________________________________

• Did you (or your partner) change your name when you married? Do you plan to change your name when you marry?
• Why did you (or your partner) change your name or not change it? Do you have any regrets about this decision? Would you do things differently now?
• Do you think it makes sense to maintain different identities in professional and personal spheres or is this confusing?
• Do you think it affects kids when they have names that are different than one of their parents?
• If you changed your name, and ultimately divorced, would you change your name back?
• How early in your relationship did you talk to your partner about getting married?

Please check out bits and pieces of some more recent (and very positive!) reviews of Life After Yes. I encourage you to click the links to read the full reviews.

“Quinn’s losses became mine.  Her fears became mine.  Her mistakes caused me to feel shame and her success caused me to feel pride.  Aidan lifts the outer layers of external perfection from her heroine and carefully reveals a creature who is initially less – but ultimately more – enviable than you thought she was based on her exterior.” Ten Dollar Thoughts

“I will admit, rather shamefacedly, that I was anticipating more girlishness in the book than there was. And while I enjoyed the day at the beach those years ago when I read Bridget Jones’ Diary, I don’t traditionally pick those books off the shelf. Aidan’s book was touching and feminine without trying too hard to land the chick-lit vote, which for someone who doesn’t vote that way, was terrific. Her protagonist was aware of her flaws and her lapses toward cliche and that made her so much more human and easy to relate to, even as she was rich and pretty… I now feel confident, nepotismessness aside, in recommending Life After Yes as excellent summer reading that even snobbish bitches like me who look at the girlbook table with disdain can guiltlessly enjoy.” Did I Really Move to Greenwich?

“Deeply philosophical, sharp and witty, without a doubt Aidan Donnelley Rowley’s book, Life After Yes, will be one of my top picks for the year.” Rundpinne

“I tend to avoid books about 9/11. It is still hard to read about. I think it always will be. As a New Yorker, I don’t need a reminder. However, I really loved how it was incorporated into Life After Yes. It was always a spectre in the background of Quinn’s thought and actions. It affects her relationships and emotions. Not only because she lost her father in the attacks but because it was a trauma for her as well. It was very well done.” Books Like Breathing

“… Rowley is very knowledgeable in philosophy and it is apparent in this novel. I absolutely fell in love with her passages on Plato and true love and marriage. Ever since finishing this novel, I have pondered those paragraphs and shared them with friends. This book is highly recommended for readers who enjoy intelligent women’s literature.” Luxury Reading

If you click and order my book, I will marry you. If you order several, I will also take your name

I woke up this morning and realized something: I am really really tired. Exhausted.

Exquisitely exhausted.

It’s been a long and lovely week. On Saturday, I headed to New Haven for Sister T’s graduation. Cozy on Yale’s campus, I felt very much at home.

I walked the streets of my past, noting the gorgeous green of the ivy. In the bold May sunshine, I watched my littlest sister graduate.

As we walked from Old Campus, I hung back to get a shot of the graduate. Flanked by sisters. It’s all about sisters.

Oh. Forgot to tell you. During the ceremony, there were a few fun celeb sightings. (I spy Steven Spielberg.)

We made our way to Pierson College. Where four of the five of us Donnelley girls spent our undergrad years. I studied the familiar swirls of a welcoming gate and the beckoning blue of a happy sky.

We posed for pictures. Five daughters. One Mom. The Donnelley girls. Here are our feet.

On Monday, after a whirlwind of commencement activities and a couple of late nights, we came home. On Tuesday, there was a soccer class and a science class and a wonderful luncheon at the Natural History Museum. There was a tearful dedication of a plaque to a certain beloved man of nature. There were construction meetings. There was a panicky and very last-minute trip to Bergdorfs to find the perfect LBD (little book dress). At 8pm, as the store was closing, said dress was purchased.

And yesterday, after an afternoon of signing stacks of Life After Yes at BookExpo America for scores of splendid strangers, I donned my little black dress and indulged in a contemplative moment before my book party. I stopped and said to myself, This is really happening. This is my Now.

We made our way there. To the Library Bar at the Hudson Hotel. A stunning spot with vast portraits of cows and countless books. And perfect peonies from a good and loyal friend.

In the center of the room, there was a beautiful blue pool table. Which kept the boys busy and in good spirits.

Before the guests arrived, my man snapped away. He captured the sublime setting.

He got candids of his wife. Like this one. Note that the only reason I am including this shot is because I kind of like the way my arm looks

It was meaningful, magical, to be surrounded by so many old books while celebrating a new one.

I like this picture. The juxtaposition of books and cows makes me giggle. It was a night of sweet smiles and friends and family and love and laughter. After the party, I stayed out for a bit with the girls. C, T, and I went for a late night meal. Like old times.

And when I got home, I paused before the mirror in our lobby. I did something strange. Something I have been known to do. I looked at my reflection. I looked at my dress. At my side-swept hair. At my vast smile. And then I took a picture. To have evidence. To memorialize a moment, a fleeting and joyful and hushed moment, with myself.

And then I took a few silly ones. Because in that moment I was feeling good and silly. And I decided there was nothing wrong with that.

And, home again, I slipped out of that black dress and into pajamas and crawled into bed with my snoozing and supportive man. Before nodding off, I kissed the back of his head. And then I slept. And continued to dream.

And I woke up this morning and realized something: I am really really tired. Exhausted.

Exquisitely exhausted.

The truth is I need a nap. And today, instead of racing and chasing and checking my Amazon ranking in ten minute intervals, I am going to take that nap. And if I have my way, there will be a little girl on either side of me cuddled up. And maybe even a cat or two purring at my feet.

____________________________

Have you ever experienced exquisite exhaustion? Do you think it is silly (and narcissistic) that I periodically snap pictures of myself? Do you ever do this? Do you need a nap?

May 18th, 2010 was a really big day for me. Yes, because Life After Yes was published. But it was also quite monumental for another reason: It was the day on which I allowed myself to start thinking about babies again.

And boy did I start.

For those of you who are new to ILI, let me give you some quick background. I love babies. I want a billion of them. Okay, actually four. Husband is open to the idea of three. What’s important to know is that I have two babies. And I want more. I told myself that I wasn’t even allowed to think of thinking about Baby #3 until my book was born. Because, yes, publishing a book was in so many ways like giving birth. There was the wild anticipation and build-up. There was the due date. There are the postpublication hormones ravaging my system. There might even be a touch of PPD (postpublication depression). The point is that it made sense to wait. And, like a good girl, I did.

But now.

The topic is on that proverbial table. Husband and I are having the conversation. The hard one. The really hard one. The one about timing, mostly. Is now really the right time to grow our brood? Our girls are young and we already have a tough time shrouding them with what we deem to be adequate attention and affection. The chaos quotient in our lives is rather high. We are about to move into a new home. The economy is misbehaving. Husband and I both have career ambitions. Does it make sense to wait a bit until things settle? Do things ever settle? Isn’t it best to pop ‘em out while I am still young?

I don’t know.

What’s amazed me is how the conversation has veered. How the question has changed. Husband and I have talked – and seriously – about whether it makes sense to add to our family at all. We already have two healthy and happy girls. We love them fiercely and have so much fun with them. Will adding another sister (I assume it would be a girl) potentially entail a problematic fracturing of our parental focus? Do we have infinite love to give and spread around or is this a crock? Will adding another creature to our ecosystem threaten its harmony?

I’m so confused.

Anyway, this is my dilemma du jour. And it’s a big one. And I know this is all a matter of personal choice. I know that this is our decision to make. That there is no one right way to approach these things. But. As long as this is a conversation on our family table, I wanted to bring it here to my bloggy table. Because I know you guys have experiences and ideas and insights. Even if you are not all parents, you are all products of parents. Parents who presumably once had this conversation about how many kids to have and when to have them.

So. Spill it. What are your thoughts on all of this? Have you faced a similar dilemma? How many kids do you have or want (if you do want kids in the first place)? Do you think there are more or less ideal spacing and structuring schemes for families? How have you enjoyed the spacing and structuring in your family of origin and your family now? Have you moved away or toward the way your parents did things? Ultimately, is this question, like that of how integral lust is to a successful marriage, something that is purely idiosyncratic and defies generalization?

(Help.)

I’m not going to lie. I’m a bit sick of talking about my book. And so. Today I’m taking a day off from my diplomatic begging. Today I’m getting a wee bit wild. Pushing my prudish limits. My homework this morning is sweet and simple: To start a sexy conversation and have fun doing it.

But sex? Why must I write about sex? I do not need to strip down or sell out to please you guys. I can write a squeaky clean, but intriguing post on oodles of interesting and inspiring topics that have nothing at all to do sex. It doesn’t always have to be about sex, right?

Wrong.

When it comes to life, lust is a must. What is the river of existence without a current of deep desire? What is a cosmic fire without that spark? What is romance without a periodic romp? What is partnership without a pulse? What is date night without a squeeze of the knee or a nuzzle on the neck?

Pause. Hold up. Do not get angry yet. I am not saying that life should be all frisky fireworks. I am not saying that a happy life is one long honeymoon. I am not saying that we should perennially prance around in lush lingerie with come-hither eyes. No. Many days are full of Platonic wonders. Of shared chores and frustrations and doubts. Many nights are full of headaches and heartaches and reality television and, yes, even sweatpants.

That is life. That is reality.

But. Sometimes. Every now and then or even more than that, there should be more. Every now and then, love should manifest in longing and trust should give way to lust, right?

Okay. Where ever is this coming from? I’ll tell you where. A friend of mine told me once that her friend – who is seemingly happily married – never ever has sex. Like, never ever ever. I grilled my friend. I told her this couldn’t possibly be true. But my friend assured me that this other girl is pretty open about it. She says she and her husband have barely done the deed since their honeymoon. That they made an exception to their no-sex rule to conceive their child. My friend insists that her friend really doesn’t care. That it’s just not a big deal.

Hmmm.

And so I thought about it. Can a marriage survive without sex? I tend to think no, but what do I know? Maybe, just maybe, the architecture of sound relationships depends on far more than lust? Maybe, just maybe, for some people, for some couples, sex is just not an important part of the existential equation? Could be.

(Doubt it though.)

______________________________________

• Do you think a marriage can go the distance without lust?
• Do you know anyone who is in a stable and happy relationship but never has sex?
• Do you think that in most relationships, sexual lust gives way to more Platonic trust? Do you think trust and understanding sometimes enhances lust?
• Do you think that infidelity is somehow more excusable when committed in the context of a sexless marriage?

*Check out my recently published interview with the lovely Gretchen Rubin of The Happiness Project fame wherein I talk about happiness and pajama dance parties. I was thrilled to see that this interview was also posted late last week over at Psychology Today. Thanks for giving me an opportunity to answer your thoughtful questions, Gretchen. (And thanks Danielle LaPorte for setting Gretchen and me up on our “blind coffee date”!)

Okay, I lasted all of 523 words. Click to buy my sexy story.

Bright College years, with pleasure rife,
The shortest, gladdest years of life;
How swiftly are ye gliding by!
Oh, why doth time so quickly fly?

The seasons come, the seasons go,
The earth is green or white with snow,
But time and change shall naught avail
To break the friendships formed at Yale.

In after years, should troubles rise
To cloud the blue of sunny skies,
How bright will seem, through mem’ry’s haze
Those happy, golden, bygone days!

Oh, let us strive that ever we
May let these words our watch-cry be,
Where’er upon life’s sea we sail:
“For God, for Country and for Yale!”

“Bright College Years”

(Written by H.S. Durand, 1881 and Composed by Carl Wilhelm)

Ten years ago, I graduated from Yale. I remember the day. The weekend. The profound perfume of pride and sadness wafting through the New Haven air. I remember wanting so badly to stay, to pause time, to soak up the sentiment I feared I wasn’t appreciating in full measure. But I also wanted it to be over. To move on. To enter that fabled real world that beckoned.

Today, it’s my youngest Sister T’s turn. She will don that standard issue polyester. In that cap and gown, she will walk. She will receive that heralded document, that diploma. She will shake a dean’s hand and smile big for photographs. At lunch, we will toast her insane 3.99 GPA which she managed to achieve – and maintain – while watching Dad get sick and say goodbye. We will also raise a glass to more intangible things. To bright and bygone college years. To heaps of happiness. To a good life beyond Ivy.

And so. On this day, I’m a proud Yalie and a proud big sister. Overwhelmed, exquisitely overwhelmed, by love and legacy and loss. At once aware of the monument that is this (fifth and final) moment and oblivious to its ultimate and unwieldy weight. For T. For me. For my family.

This post is for God, for Country, and for Yale.

But mostly?

It’s for T.

Congrats, baby sis. We are all so so proud.

And so is he.

___________________________________________

• Please congratulate my littlest sis on her big day! Any words of wisdom to pass along?
• Do you remember your own graduation day? How did you feel? Were you ready to move on?
  
• I still owe T a graduation gift. Any stellar ideas?