In praise of old fashioned names ... and telling the sex of the baby

I wrote an article in the Guardian recently - it was very short so, hey, you probably missed it - about how much I love old-fashioned names.

When I became pregnant with my eldest son, I went through just about every name I could think of. It didn’t really help that I thought he was a girl. Everyone told me he was. I went to Reiki practioners, Shiatsu healers. I talked to a work colleague who I shall call Michelle. She was years in to the process of ‘finding herself’ and yet had seemingly found nothing out at all. She spent her life partaking in Shamanistic rituals, shedding her clothes on hilltops in the wind and then chanting.

She was always reading some or other book about re-incarnation and past lives. She told me she could tell, just by placing her hands on my stomach, what sex of baby I was having. As I she did it, she closed her eyes, she started to hum. ‘It’s agirl,’ she said eventually. ‘This little being is full of feminine energy. She holds the key to the mystery of Mother Earth.’

About two months later, she came in to the office and handed me a list of names. They had funny little squiggles next to them to denote the Mother Earth-inspired ones, the ones Michelle was extra-keen on; Gaia, Moss, Fern, Honeysuckle, Rowan, Russett, Rain, Storm, Peace, Faith, Athena, Artemis and on it went. I dismissed them all out of hand whilst thanking her profusely and backing away.

My sister, on the other hand, suggested I trawl through family names to find something traditional. We sat down with my mother and found Violet, Phoebe, Rosemary, Juliet, Gladys (urgh), Mary (even more urgh), Petunia, Shirley (for a boy, v trad.). None of these worked for me. My friend PRB suggested show girls and came up with the best name ever - Dolly Diamond - but when I told my Spanish friend of my plan to call my baby Dolores, her hands flew to her face. ‘Oh so sad! So sad!’ she wailed, so that was that.

In desperation I asked everyone. Gay Nick suggested Queenie after his grannie. Anna Friel, who I was interviewing, went for Gracie (in fact, she went on to call her own daughter that name). My friend PS thought Vera was good or even Cherry or Poppy. My friend Lou loved Emerald. I liked Marlena Rose, my husband really didn’t.

But all of this meant nothing when eldest son appeared. At first I couldn’t believe he was a boy - actually that was the second thing I thought. The first was WHY AM I STILL IN PAIN EVEN THOUGH THE BLOODY BABY HAS COME OUT? I was shaking so much, I couldn’t even hold him. My husband couldn’t hold him because he though the might drop him. He looked terrified when the midwife held this bundle out. Instead, a man I barely knew who had insisted on coming to the birth to ‘help me get through it’, held my first born son. I had met this man a couple of months before. He was an acupuncturist and when I told him I was a) terrified of pain and b) terrified of needles, he insisted he should come to the birth to help me get over both fears. I have no idea why I acquiesed. I was so polite back then. I should of said, ‘god no, I barely know you. Why on earth would you want to do this?’ Instead I said, ‘oh thank you so much yes that would be wonderful.’

This meant that I spent the 11 hours of my labour asking Mr Acupuncture if he was alright, as if we were at a party or something that I had bought him to where he didn’t know anyone. My husband thought it was mad. ‘What is he DOING here?’ he kept on whispering in my ear as I grimaced through a contraction. ‘Ask him to go.’ ‘Yes-yes-yes,’ I’d say and then turn to Mr A and say, ‘would you like a glass of water or something else?’ Poor man. And his bloody needles didn’t work. It was all so excruciating.

Anyway, the baby came out and there he was and then the midwife asked us what we were going to call him and my husband and I just looked at each other. ‘I don’t know,’ I said. Then I looked at my huge son for an age - I was holding him now - and for some reason I thought about  my maternal grandfather who was, by then, deceased, and said, ‘I’m going to call him Raymond.’ The midwife looked a bit perplexed. ‘Raymond?’ she said. ‘That’s a very old-fashioned name.’ ‘Yes it is,’ I said. ‘It’s my grandfathers.’

Now what’s interesting in calling your children old-fashioned names is that if they are named after a relative, people accept it. In fact, they think it’s great. They say things like, ‘especially close to your grandfather were you?’ Me: ‘No.’  (True, I wasn’t. He was grumpy and cross about the war and the fact that everyone was driving Japanese cars).  Or they think you are carrying on some family tradition. ‘Are all eldest sons in your family history called Raymond?’ Me: ‘No.’ (Also true).

I just like the name Raymond and how it can be shortened to Ray. My husband was happy because he is mad on Ray Davies. All the other mothers in the hospital had called their babies Sophie, Tallulah, Poppy, Jackson (this was the Chelsea and Westminster, v trendy) and, really oddly, Milliana which someone claimed to be a surfing place in Hawaii. In fact, once I got Raymond home, everyone I met from baby massage classes at the local health centre to when he started nursery raised their eyebrows when I told them his name. But, hey, Raymond loves it. It makes him feel special. He stands out in a crowd.

I have since gone on to name my children Leonard, Jeremiah and Ottoline. I finally got that girl but, by that time, Marlena Rose was in the past. Ottoline was a compromise. I wanted to call her bananas things like Honeysuckle, Peony, Lavender and all other flowers even maybe Hollyhock but my husband said no. He long name is Ottoline Violet Emerald Honeysukle - poor her, the only girl. They boys sound as if they should be in jazz band - Ray, Len, Jerry. Ottoline would have been a Gilbert (Gil) if she’d grown a willy in my womb.

In my first three novels - the Samantha Smythe ones - they are Edward, Bennie and Jamie. They are, in fact, named after my father for convenience. He was Edward Patrick James but I decided calling Bennie Paddy wouldn’t work as it would make him sound Irish. People always want to know if the children are themselves in the books - they are to a certain extent. In fact, I am re-reading Book Two (out next March) in proof form at the moment. I wrote it over two years ago so it’s like reading a brief history of how the children were then. In many ways, I think they will like that when they are old and grey - and everyone’s called Apple, Moses, Knox etc etc - their names will stand out like beacons in the darkness of utter name-madness.

This post was written by  Lucy Cavendish, a journalist and author of Samantha Smythe's Modern Family Journal. Her new book, Lost and Found, is due out in March. She lives in the Thames Valley with her husband Michael and their four children. You can keep up with Lucy at Samantha Smythe's Modern Family Blog.

Photo credit: Julie Campbell
 

Comments

[Coding Mamma (Tasha)]

I love old-fashioned names. My daughter's name is Rosemary - named after two of her grandmothers (Rose and Mary) and also chosen because it can be shortened in many different ways, giving her the opportunity to choose her own preferences (at two and a half, she's already settled on Rosie, though I imagine the teenage years may see other versions).

She is the only Rosemary at nursery school. And I like that. It means we can just write Rosemary on her clothing labels, instead of the full name. It means that if you call her name in a playground, only she will respond (or the 80-year-old lady having a rest on the bench), rather than five other little girls.

[Susanna (A Modern Mother)]

I'm a bit of an old-fashioned girl myself...