I hate my name.

I’ve never really liked my name. My first name, that is- my surname is strong and straightforward and easy to spell when booking restaurants, which is all one can really ask of a surname. It’s also a big improvement on my maiden name, which I’m not prepared to divulge… suffice to say that, though I’ve been married 16 years, friends from before this era still call me Chook. I’ve told my husband that should we ever divorce he can have the kids, but I’m keeping his name.

But, oh, my Christian name…. ruined forever by that blonde poppet from Ramsay Street. Though I had it first, everyone I meet invariably associates Kylie with the singing budgie. One friend called me “Minogue” right through Uni; another still finds it hysterical to suggest we do the Locomotion when we meet. When I worked in Scotland for three yearsa my patients could never believe they were being seen by a Kylie from Australia, and the first ten minutes of every assessment would be spent with them asking all the questions rather than me.

I’m sure my parents thought they were doing the right thing. They named me after the indigenous writer Kylie Tennant, and at a time when the name was still relatively rare. How could they have known what was to come? Though Kylie is an aboriginal word for a type of hunting boomerang, in my mind- and seemingly that of the general public- it is forever associated with hotpants and shag perms. Miles Franklin short-listed author Carrie Tiffany once described her own name as “ridiculously flaky”, and I know exactly what she means. When was the last time you came across a brain surgeon or Nobel prize winner called Kylie? To make matters worse, in the aged-care circles where I work a ‘Kylie’ is a brand of incontinence underwear. I, too, am lightly padded and very discrete, but it’s hardly endeared me to my moniker.

So when it came to choosing names for my own children I was determined to get it right. I wanted a name they could be proud of; something with which they could co-exist happily for 70-odd years. Armed with a minor degree in English Literature, I also hoped for a name from one of the novels I loved- Katharine or Jordan maybe, Heathcliff if I could swing it.

Thus it was rather a shock when on my second date with my now husband he declared in no uncertain terms that if we ever had a son, he would be named Declan. When I asked why, I was told that he’d heard it on the BBC series Capital City and just loved the sound of it. From literature to television- I wasn’t impressed, but assumed he’d forget or change his mind.

He didn’t. Eleven years later, when we learnt we were expecting our first child, Craig turned to me and said “Don’t forget- it’s Declan for a boy.” The baby was to be born in Scotland and I argued vociferously for a Scottish name, but to no avail. After Declan arrived I spent the first few months telling all our Scottish friends that yes, I knew the name we had chosen was Irish, and telling all our other friends that Declan was named after the central character in Colm Toibin’s beautiful novel, The Blackwater Lightship. When pushed, I was forced to add that the Declan of the novel spends it slowly dying of AIDS, but, literary snob that I am, still preferred that version to admitting his name came from a TV show.

Two and a bit years later we were playing the name game again. Awaiting the birth of our second child, we had a girl’s name sorted but couldn’t agree on a boy’s. I desperately wanted Cary; Craig just as desperately wanted Rory. In a spirit of compromise we agreed on Connor… but as the due date approached I decided I didn’t want to compromise. Declan’s birth had taken 12 hours, required umpteen blood transfusions and left me with a thick scar that stretched from hipbone to hipbone. After enduring all that, surely I got to choose the name this time? Craig- who abhorred the name Cary- was sympathetic, but unconvinced. I remember us arguing about it still as we drove to the hospital on the morning I gave birth. It was just after dawn and all around us the world was coming awake- lights going on in shops, traffic mounting, birds singing… and me sitting in the car with one hand on my hugely distended belly thinking “I’m just about to have your child and I hate your guts”.

I’m still not sure who would have won that one. Thankfully, Ladd number two was a girl, who we christened Cameron Sarah. It was the name we had chosen for Declan, should he have been female, and the Scottish connection I had yearned for: my great-great-great-grandmother was Sarah Cameron of the Cameron clan, born in Fort William but leaving Scotland for a new life in Australia during the Highland Clearances.

I love both my children’s names, and now of course can’t imagine calling them anything else. Looking back, though, I can’t help but wonder where it all went wrong: my Scottish-born child ended up with an Irish name, my Australian-born one got a Scottish name, and neither was graced with the literary appellation of my dreams. Still, it could have been worse. With any luck, my kids won’t have to go through life sharing a name with someone from Neighbours.

How did your parents choose your name? How did you come to name your children?