Monitor monikers and name names
The Globe And Mail
Tuesday, October 3, 2006

The quest began seconds after the stick turned blue.

It dominated every conversation between my wife and me for the next eight months, until that cold October evening when I sat in a delivery room cradling eight pounds of slippery baby.

It would start over breakfast: "How about Sarah?" At dinner, it continued: "How about Jacob?" We even discussed it while brushing our teeth: "Howg abowt Oglivia?"

Naming a baby. I had no idea it would be so hard.

We had three main criteria: The name couldn't be too popular; it had to sound nice; and it couldn't mean something ridiculous.

Although we wanted a less-common name, we weren't going to choose something weird. In our house, unlike that of Gwyneth Paltrow's, an apple lies in a bowl, not a crib. We weren't going to emulate the California parents I'd read about who were so adamant that their child's name be unique that their child's name is Unique. Too bad more than 200 other California babies shared the name. So much for Unique's uniqueness.

As for the name's meaning, it didn't have to be fantastic -- "One who possesses beauty, strength and an unusually high aptitude for spatial geophysics" -- just not terrible. That meant no Everett ("strong boar") or Penelope ("silent worker"). Of course, these were nothing compared with some of the foreign monikers I found while browsing the baby name websites.

My three favorites: Tareq ("door knocker"), Nyeki ("second wife"), Persephone ("bringer of destruction").

To make things more difficult, we had to choose two names (four, actually, if you include middle names) because we didn't want to know if the baby was a boy or a girl. Well, we wanted to know eventually, just not before the birth.

There were a lot of girl names that we liked -- Emma, Sarah, Hannah -- but they were all too popular. We settled on Chloe. It means "blossoming," which is nice enough. But when we paired it with our last name, Collier, it sounded awful. Adios, Chloe.

I thought Lilly and Lolo were fun names, by my wife hated them. She liked Naomi, but it made me think of that supermodel who throws cellphones at her assistants. (You know, that skinny supermodel.) The boys names we liked -- Jacob, Ethan, Owen -- were also too popular. We thought Caleb was nice, but we already knew two little Calebs. We agreed upon Elijah. But then my wife's brother had a baby boy and named him Elijah.

Argh.

Frustration set in. Our discussions became heated, and I would automatically dismiss any name my wife suggested. A typical conversation: Her: "How about Corinne?"

Me: "That's the worst name in the history of names."

Her: "That's my grandmother's name."

Me: (Sound of me quickly backing out of the room.)

Eventually, however, we did find a name we both loved. And on the day before Halloween, Ella Sophia Collier, a beautiful little girl with a full head of thick, black hair, joined our lives.

Ella sounds like Emma, which we liked, be wasn't as popular. It means "beautiful fairy woman," which we didn't like, but could live with. Sophia means "wisdom" but we picked it because the two names sound so nice together.

Two years later, this time just before Christmas, my wife gave birth to our second child, a son. His name: Jack Aloysius Collier.

Jack is one of those familiar sounding names that isn't as common as it once was. It means "God is gracious."

My wife wasn't enthusiastic when I first mentioned it, but I thought it was a good, strong name for a boy. Besides, she didn't have any better suggestions. During dinner one night, though, she had made an interesting proposal.

Her: "How about Michael?"

Me: "Your old boyfriend's name?"

Her: "Yes."

Me: "No."

Aloysius (pronounced Al-oo-ish-us) is my father's name and my middle name.

It means "famous warrior" and is extremely rare. I've always enjoyed the confused faces of people reading it on my driver's licence or health card.

I hope Jack has fun with it, too.

Thankfully, we no longer have to worry about choosing names -- we aren't having more children. At least, I don't want more. My wife, however, has always wanted three.

In other words, I strongly suspect that some morning in the near future, while I'm pulling a bagel from the toaster and a pot of dark roast brews on the counter, I will hear a familiar question.

"How about Benjamin?"