The author welcoming her eldest daughter into the world.“Hi Mum, what’s the DOB?” chirps the receptionist at my paediatrician’s office for the thousandth time this year.I pause, momentarily confused. Did I miss something? Did she mistake me for her own mother? Or, did my name legally change to “Mum” when a human was yanked from my body as I lay splayed open on the operating table?I glance down at my driver’s license. Nope, still says Alli. I must have missed the memo that giving birth automatically erases the name given to you at birth and replaces it with a sticky name tag that just says “MUM” in all caps.“June 1st,” I grit my teeth and answer, adding, “and, my name is Alli.”I’m convinced there’s a secret room at the hospital where they store all the discarded identities of new mothers. Just overflowing bins full of actual names, gathering dust while we parade around with our new government-issued label: MUM. I imagine them there, thousands of names ― Lauren, Jillian, Kim, Alli ― all withering away like forgotten houseplants. The erosion of your identity begins the mom