I’m reading a really great book. It’s called The Names, by Florence Knapp. In a nutshell, it’s about how the life of a child unfurls in three different realities in which the one variable is his name. You should read it. It got me thinking about the power of names. Do they really influence who we become?

As a midwife, I’m often lucky enough to be the first to know a baby’s name. That’s an extraordinary privilege because names are deeply personal and chosen with tender love and care. They may be chosen to honour a loved one. Or perhaps they follow long-established family traditions. They might have been chosen long long ago by the mother. Often there’s a meaning, a kind of good luck incantation for the baby. Usually there will have been intense discussion, shortlists compiled, names vetoed. You want the perfect name: it  isn’t too out there, but not common either; sensible to spell; has a sweet diminutive that you also love; distinctive and original; something that will work for a baby and the adult you hope she’ll turn into.

There’s an episode of Friends which really stuck with me, where Rachel is choosing a name for her newborn daughter. It transpires that Monica has had her baby names picked out since childhood, she thinks this is normal. The reason it struck me was that I had names picked out (in 1992), years before Firstborn Son was born. I wrote them down in my (very embarrassing) teenage diary. Like Monica, I thought that was normal. I was appalled by Rachel’s decision to use Monica’s choice.  It felt like a betrayal. I had to remind myself it wasn’t real. FYI, I still watch Friends and it still makes me laugh out loud,  and Monica is my absolute favourite.

I had three boy’s names and three girls names on my 1992 list. I know this because yesterday I went back to said cringe-worthy diary (which had been in my possession, but which I hadn’t read since) and found the list. I know, right? I never used the boy names. One was based on little lord Fauntleroy, a book I’d loved as a girl, but I’d moved on, phew! Another was because I REALLY liked Christian Slater (look, he was an angelic looking tortured soul in Robin Hood, although by this logic, the name Kevin should also have been on the list. It wasn’t). Then there was Julian, you know, the sensible one from the Famous Five, plus, also, John Lennon’s Firstborn was thus monikered… had Only Daughter been a boy, she’d have been Julian.

I knew even then that I’d need names that would work in both French and English. You might think that having two cultures to draw names from would be advantageous, but you’d be wrong. Think of a Venn diagram with two intersecting circles: only the names in that small intersection will work. Names that are seemingly identical are not pronounced the same, eg Benjamin (look, if you’re French, you’ll know what I mean); a name might be masculine in one and feminine in another Michel vs Michelle or Yves vs Eve; or completely different eg Jacques vs James, or Benoît vs Benedict.

My sister and I got lucky with the names we were given since, when we were born (in France), my parents didn’t know we’d be growing up in London. Our names couldn’t have been more Franco-english. Same spelling, roughly the same pronunciation. Common in both languages. We were lucky to have been girls, though, as one of us would have been Etienne. Lovely name, Stephen in English! My brothers were born in England and were not thus encumbered.

By the time my Firstborn was in production, I decided to go for an Archangel name. I hoped it would make him feel welcome and wanted. Maybe a part of me wished for him to have a guardian angel, guiding him and protecting him. I chose the one associated with medicine, I thought it was apt for a midwife’s son.

Middle Child would have been named after another Archangel but that got categorically vetoed by his dad. I was informed in no uncertain terms that it sounded gay. Look, I feel very strongly that whoever is doing the gestating should have naming rights but since we had agreed to pass on both surnames, I accepted the veto. We agreed on a name that means happy or lucky, traits that we both wished to endow him with.

It was common knowledge among my family and friends that if I ever had a daughter, she would have the name she bears. It’s what either of her brothers would have been called had they been girls.  Her name was on the 1992 list. I think I’d just read War and Peace. You should read that, too!

Another point of contention is the child’s surname. For better or worse  it used to be straightforward: the child  would get the father’s patronym which signified his acceptance of paternity, whether or not rings had been exchanged. Now there’s a bit more wriggle room. I wasn’t married to Firstborn Son’s father. Not gonna lie, it was an uncertain time: even though we both wanted that child, we hadn’t exactly planned it… but it was pretty clear from the outset that we would not be living together. We were both super grateful that we weren’t expected to cohabit, let alone get married. But if I was going to be the primary caregiver, attending the parent-teacher evenings, the doctors surgery for routine and non-routine visits, applying for (and regularly renewing) identity documents, organising family trips to France… it would be easier if he had my surname. And fairer too, if I’m honest.

Thus it came about.  His father and I registered his birth. He acknowledged paternity, I passed on my father’s name. But our disregard for matrimony had left our son stateless (there was a small period of time when unmarried dads couldn’t pass on their British nationality, less than 10 years), unless I registered him as a citizen of my land of birth. Just figuring out how to gain admittance to the French consulate was a head-scratcher. And then it got worse… many documents were mandated. Including an oddly specific (eyes open, white background, correctly proportioned) photo of the baby. And when all the paperwork had been rubberstamped, there was one final hurdle: the baby’s name. Our choice of first name wasn’t vetoed by the French government (you think I’m joking, but until 1993 there was a list). Our choice of surname was. If sir had acknowledged paternity, sir could rightfully expect his father’s name on that French birth certificate. To his eternal credit, ‘sir’ accepted (he had to sign an affidavit, I kid you not!) the only available compromise: double barrelled, his name first, mine second. Firstborn Son is due to graduate in June. Whoever gets to officiate for that ceremony is due an apology – it’s a mouthful of a name!

I was married to middle child’s father, so I thought that formalising the surname union on his French birth certificate would be a breeze. LOL! Ah, non, madame.  Ze ‘usband gives ees name, biensûr. Said hubby had to (you guessed it) sign an affidavit confirming that he gave his permission.

Over the years, I’ve heard many many names. The vast majority wouldn’t have been sanctioned by the French authorities pre 1993, and some that might not pass muster today either. I’ve mostly been really good at reserving judgement because, as I said, names are so personal, and my hospital is very multicultural so the diversity of names has been a constant education. There’s always a meaning.  But I was once taken aback by a woman who chose a Greek mythological hero’s name for her newborn son. She’d had a long and difficult labour, but even so, a Trojan war hero? I confess to having felt the name would be challenging to grow into. That’s a name laden with aspirations. But then again, I went for the archangel so, you know… Pot. Kettle. Black.

I’ve finished the book. I know it’s not real, but its fun to wonder what middle child’s life would have been like if he’d got my Archangel name and his dad’s surname… pretty much identical, I’d wager. I’ll never know. I can say that he is happy and lucky, always looking out for his friends. My Archangel child, always endeavouring to do the right thing, is spreading his wings, he’ll fly high. And my daughter is a proper heroine, forging her own independent path, already dreaming of the protagonists she’s going to write into existence. But, while all these things are true (long may they be true), and much as I want to believe in the power of names, there’s obviously a whole world of complexity at play. Florence Knapp would agree.