By Lucy Cavendish
Twp years ago, I gave birth to our baby girl. We had three boys before her and, for some reason, naming those boys was a simple matter.
I had a list of names for my first one: Alfie, Albie, Oscar. But when he popped out, he looked so like my grandfather I called him Raymond. I didn't know then that all babies look as old as the hills but, anyway, I happened to like the name Raymond.
When I told my mother we had named our son after her father, she said: "But I never liked my father."
We were going to call our second son Gilbert because I was mad on Anne Of Green Gables - he didn't look like a Gilbert but a Leonard (after Messrs Cohen and Woolf). The third was always going to be Jerry because I was having a Good Life moment and kept on thinking with amusement of Margo shouting out "Jerry!"
All through these pregnancies, I kept wondering about girls' names. I went mainly for flower names - Lilac, Rose, Rowan and so on. My husband went for... actually, I'm not sure, because by the time we got round to forming any consensus, I was in labour and boys kept popping out.
The name issue only became a problem when we found out our fourth child was a girl. My husband initially liked Madeleine, but it reminded me too much of poor Madeleine McCann. I liked Scarlett, but no one else did. My mum liked Linnet. My friend Kate liked Katherine. "There's so much to do with the name Katherine," she said.
She then told me that she had been born Tracey, but had changed her name by deed poll in her 20s.
"Do you have any understanding what it is like going through life being called Tracey?" she said. My mind boggled. "But why didn't you change it to something more exotic?" I asked her. "To me, Kate is exotic," she said.
As the birth date grew nearer, we came up with more suggestions: Iris, Petunia, Daphne, Georgia, Cecilia, Laura, Odette, Daisy, Poppy, Fuchsia. We just couldn't agree on anything.
A day before the baby was born, Kate called. "I've got the name!" she screamed. "Call her Otterly." We mulled it over. "Hasn't that nice man down the road got an Otterly?" my husband asked. "Why not Ottoline then?" I said. "After Lady Ottoline Morrell."
We did some research. We liked the sound of Ottoline Morrell. She'd been a liberal, married to a pacifist. She lived nearby at Garsington, Oxfordshire. She'd had an affair with Bertrand Russell. So, that was it. We had a name. Ottoline Violet Emerald Honeysuckle Cavendish Agar was born on April 21, 2007. And ever since then she has been called Sparkle.
My eldest son took one look at her and said "Isn't Ottoline a silly name?" and: "Isn't she a sparkly baby?" Ottoline did seem a bit of a grand name for such a tiny baby, and she was so very sparkly so Sparkle she became.
She is two years old and still thinks her name is Sparkle, as does everyone else. When she sees pictures of herself she says: "That's me. Baby 'Parkle'."
She has just started playgroup and after the odd raised eyebrow when we told everyone what her name was, now no one seems to think it is odd at all. In fact, people seem to like her name. "That's unusual," they say.
In truth, I feel we have misnamed her. I believe we call her Sparkle because, deep down, neither of us really likes her name. It was a compromise name; it wasn't Lilac (my favourite) or Elizabeth (my husband's favourite). So now we are considering the unthinkable... changing her name.
But what is the effect of changing a name? In America they call it baby-name remorse, and it seems to be on the rise. In a recent survey of 1 219 mothers conducted by babycenter.com, 10 percent considered changing their baby's name.
It's impossible to know if a change of name leads to an appalling identity crisis or a massive sense of relief. I have a neighbour who is known by everyone as Cherry. But when we met her cousin, he called her Cheryl.
Only one letter has been changed, yet my bubbly Cherry is far away from being a Cheryl. "I can't bear being a Cheryl," she says. "It's my real name, but it doesn't feel like me at all."
There are many theories about why we change our names - some do it because they want to stand out, some because they want to blend in. I think most people change their name because they do not feel comfortable being the person they are meant to be. I had a friend, John, who was adopted. He found out his real name was Ben. We tried it for a while, but he didn't seem to be a "Ben" at all. Bens were people who went on yachts, we decided. John was not like that at all.
My mother tells me my father nearly called me Adelaide, as he had travelled in Australia before I was born. She still shudders at the thought of it, as do I.
So, I fear I have gone wrong with my daughter's name. Whereas my boys' names are pretty bog-standard, Ottoline smacks a bit of Notting Hill pretension. I have a horrible feeling it's the female equivalent of calling your son Tybalt or Titus.
I don't think I've fallen into the celebrity trap. They call their children preposterous names such as Fifi Trixibelle, Princess Tiamii, Peaches, Apple. Think of Zowie Bowie, now known as Duncan Jones.
I'm not sure what to do about the Sparkle/Ottoline dilemma. I love the name Sparkle but no grown woman will want to be saddled with a name like that. But Ottoline? In the end, I suppose it will be up to her.
God forbid if she decides to call herself Tracey. That really would serve me right. - Daily Mail