Me with Joey late last week.

One of my family’s most cherished holiday photos is of me and my sister each sitting on a knee of the Santa Claus that used to occupy the Uncle Sam Atrium, back when it was a miniature downtown mall with its own movie theater rather than what it is today: a hollow glass monstrosity housing state workers and a CVS.

In the photo, my sister has a shit-eating grin on her face because I, at the age of two, had my mouth and eyes wide open in mid-scream as thick streams of tears poured over my bright red cheeks. Although the photo is decades old, the last time I saw it those tears were as clear and fresh as they day they fell. I’m pretty sure the photo actually cries like a South American statue of the Virgin Mary.

When my sister brought my nephew Joey (who turns two years old in February) to see a less than friendly St. Nick at the Lights in the Park in Albany, he had the same reaction. They did not take a photo, saving him the shame of twenty-nine years of jokes and mental scarring.

Laugh if you will, but can you blame us for our reaction? Claus is a loud, aggressive, hairy, unkempt fat man who wears the same sweatsuit every day. And he breaks into peoples’ houses. Santa isn’t magic, he’s homeless and desperate. He’s the guy I avoid making eye contact with at the bus stop.

My nephew Caden, on the other hand, did not cry. A very empathetic and observant toddler, he instead held his own and stared down the cruel Christmas tyrant. The photographic evidence:

What’s telling is not just Caden’s expression but that of his father (and my brother), Jack. They will sit with this madman, but they will not pretend to be appreciative of his company. And Jack, like me, remembers. He remembers, Claus.

So this, likely my penultimate Christmas post, goes out to my little nephews Caden and Joey, who will be having their first Conscious Christmas (that’s what it’s called when your kid is smart enough for the first time to realize he’s getting presents – start using it often) this year. Merry Christmas, you brave young souls, you princes of Troy, you Kings of New York.

And congratulations to Caden who, this year, becomes the first male toddler in three (four?) generations of Marshalls not to burst into frightened tears at the sight of Santa Claus.

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One of the ongoing debates in our culture relates to overprotective smothering of children by young, well-meaning, paranoid parents. In a piece in Sunday’s Boston Globe (“The armored child”), staff writer Leon Neyfakh notes the increasing sales of things like baby helmets and harnesses and asks two important questions: are these parents going too far, and is the culture of helicopter parents a new phenomena or the evolution of long-held desires to protect our children?

One of the unsettling aspects of the piece is that there’s another question that will remain unanswered until it’s too late: what, exactly, are the long-term effects of tying children to harnesses and fitting them with helmets anytime they’re out of the crib? Critics charge that it may prevent them from being able to deal with and process adversity, as well as making them averse to taking chances.

Personally speaking, my stomach turns a little bit when I see a child on a harness. There seems to be something demeaning in applying the same practices to a toddler that you would to a dog, particularly when the child does not have any disability that necessitates it and the parent is healthy enough to care for it. All of my family members and friends are able to bring their children out sans leash, so it begs the question: is this necessary? Why subject yourself to unnecessary scrutiny? Is the statistically small risk of your child being seriously hurt or worse while in your immediate vicinity outweigh the potential long-term psychological effects? And do we give these parents a pass because they’re well-meaning or call them out for pushing their neurotic and paranoid tendencies onto their child in a very public and embarrassing fashion?

As you can probably gather, any attempt for me to appear neutral in the debate is for naught.

Thing is, there’s nothing on the side of baby helmets and harnesses that is rooted in science or statistics. Rather, it’s driven purely by emotion. One would think that the 21st Century would bring more rational thinking and logic to the discussion, but when it comes to the safety of one’s own children, that goes out the window. It’s a quandary as old as…well, the Middle Ages. From the article:

True, families in medieval Europe did not have great car seats. But the idea that they didn’t care about protecting their children from perceived harm – the idea that humans didn’t treat children as special until the dawn of modernity – is contradicted by evidence suggesting that parents in the Middle Ages worried about their kids no less than we worry about ours today. Parents without vaccines or childproof locks relied instead on amulets and rituals to protect their kids.

Amulets and rituals which, no doubt, were sold or traded by folks all too eager to cash in on groundless fear and parental paranoia. In the Middle Ages, a magical trinket purchased from an old woman would protect your child from consumption. And it’ll probably have the same success rate as a child in 2011 adorned in a soft styrofoam helmet.

If you’re a young or expecting parent, do your kids a favor: take the helmet off your baby, unhook the harness, and let the kid play.

Today, we discuss names.

Carrying on the family name isn’t something that I worry about too often. I’m not particularly driven to have children; at least, not right away. I’m content with my nieces and the nephew (as well as another one on the way this Summer!). I can pop in and out as I choose to visit, coddle, or play with them. Then when things get oo messy or noisy or responsible-y, Uncle Kevin can take his leave. Besides, with my brother’s wife expecting, we’re now assured that the Marshall name will be carried forth in our lineage, so it’s no longer on me.

Thanks, bro! Way to get your wife pregnant.

Today, however, I met a recently married couple that made me think about what’s in a name. They were incredibly likable, nice, and genteel people; the sort that I would most likely end up in engaging in fruitful conversation with if our interaction didn’t involve my day job (which I will not disclose or discuss in this blog – sorry stalkers!), which unfortunately limited the time and scope of our discourse. But I digress. This isn’t about the couple, per se, but rather the unique and unusual choice they made regarding their surname.

Studies show most couples with Conjoined Surnames are happy. This unfortunately wasn't the case for Tom and Jodi Angrygesture.

It may be familiar to some of you. In fact, I may have heard or read of it before, but this was the first time I’ve personally encountered it. For the sake of feigning cleverness, I’m going to create a name for it: The Conjoined Surname. It’s when a couple gets married and decides that rather than the woman taking the man’s last name or hyphenating, they combine the two with both husband and wife adopting the new surname. For example: Bob Fitz marries Cheryl Simmons, and they become Bob and Cheryl Fitzsimmons.

That seems like a silly example since Fitzsimmons is a real name, but that’s sort of the point. I won’t give out the couple’s name out of respect for their privacy, but I will say they both had German surnames that combined into another German surname that actually exists. Or, at the very least, looks like it could be a real German surname.

I was so pleasantly surprised by their choice that I actually complimented them on it. I thought it was neat, and pondered if I would ever consider doing it if the opportunity presented itself.

After reflecting on it, I have to admit that I’m not so sure.

To me, a name has always just been a name and not much more. While I have respect and appreciation for my family history, there are so many surnames in my lineage that I don’t really think of “Marshall” as the end all/be all of my familial identity.  However, if I did change my name – say I got married and became Hathawaymarshall – I don’t think it’d go over too well with my family. We’re all fairly progressive minded individuals, but I think all of us – not just me and my family but also you, dear reader – have some sort of attachment and identification with our name that isn’t easily assuaged. Changing my name is one of those things that I can confidently say seems insignificant to me now, but only because I don’t find myself in the position of having to make that decision (and won’t anytime in the foreseeable future).

Kate Winslet has split with Sam Mendes, which means she's now on the market for me to marry and quickly divorce. Awww yeah.

Although it would be fun to come up with new surnames for all of my Celebrity Fantasy Marriages. Come on, admit it, you all have them! You imagine yourself being married to a mega-star for somewhere in the neighborhood of 18-24 months until it publically falls apart and Star Magazine rips you apart for being a “dog” and claims you don’t wash yourself every day and broke Jennifer Aniston’s heart and were you seen being chummy with a recent co-star you unbelievable cad? Okay, maybe it’s just me. You live your life and I’ll live mine.

Soooo, let’s see:
* Kevin Hathawaymarshall
* Kevin Plazamarshall
* Kevin Mancusomarshall
* Kevin Casemarshall
* Kevin Winseltmarshall
* Kevin Vowellmarshall

Hrm. None of them really work, do they? That’s the problem with my name: it’s a bit too insular and only works on its own. So I guess when all is said and done, I’d be better off sticking with Marshall.

(That’s what she said.)

Yet still, I wonder: how would my family react? I’m going to ask them and hope they don’t get spooked and think I’m actually considering it. In the meantime, share your thoughts on the matter. Would you and/or your spouse change your name? If so, how do you plan on going about it? And if not, what are you going to tell your poor crying mother and father, you unappreciative little bastard?