The delicate task of a selecting a lifelong label

Baby names can be a lot like items at a garage sale.

One parent’s trash is another one’s treasure.

I’ve been thinking about this lately, particularly after a couple of recent events.

The first came when I ran across a news story about a man arrested in connection with a shooting in 2006. The man’s name was Lando Calrisian Young. First name Lando. Middle name Calrisian. Like the Star Wars character. Seriously. The story went on to say the man often went by an alias. No kidding? Gee, I wonder why.

The second happened as a coworker told everyone in our office that he and his pregnant wife found out they are having a girl. Her name is going to be Lily. Half the folks in the office said “What a lovely name.” The others said nothing, but looked as though they had smelled the inside of a diaper pail.

It reminded me of when I was pregnant with my first child. The baby was about the size of a peanut when my mother asked if we were thinking of names.

“If it’s a boy, I like the name Spencer,” I told her.

“No,” she ordered. “I hate that name.” Ditto for the next ten names I mentioned.

After that, I didn’t tell her — or anyone else for that matter — names I was considering. (Spencer, however, was forever tainted for me.)

Naming a child requires deep thought and careful compromise. It should be fun — remember giving your baby dolls exotic names? — but it’s intensely stressful. This is the name your child will be stuck with FOREVER. Pick wisely, or else your child will be the butt of cruel playground pranks and lively Internet chatter.

You don’t want your child to end up as Fanny Whiffer or Champagne Dreams. And even if you are a celebrity, Apple and Bronx may be a bit embarrassed when ordering business cards.

My children, Emma and John, arrived after nine months of heated debate with my husband. We agreed that we BOTH had to like the name or it was immediately thrown off our list. I had my heart set on Claire and Patrick. He nixed them right out the gate. I axed his first choices: Elizabeth and Theodore.

I remember spending an entire evening thinking of book characters from which to craft the perfect name. The next day, at a doctor’s appointments, we sat next to a new mother. She was holding her six-week-old son, D’Artagnan.

“From ‘The Three Musketeers?’”  my husband inquired. “Yep,” the mom answered. “We just loved the movie.”

We promptly threw out the book character idea and crossed Scarlett and Holden off the list. (I neglected to remind my husband that Emma is the title of a delightful Jane Austen book until after the ink on her birth certificate dried. This was also just before Emma skyrocketed up the list of most popular baby names.)

We could have tried song titles like my friend Bill. He’s a huge Beatles fan. His son’s name is Julian. As in “Hey Jude.”

“My wife and I never, ever agreed on boy names. Not even close,” he told me. “Julian was the only one. I mean THE ONLY ONE.”

Sure, Bill. It had nothing to do with a little ditty by Lennon-McCartney.

“I do call him Jude,” he admitted.

A boy in my daughter’s class is named Lennon, as in John Lennon. Emma says Lennon explains that every time he meets someone new. I guess even at 11 you don’t want people to think you were named after Vladimir Lenin. I wonder how John’s schoolmates, Kennedy and Reagan explain their names.

My niece is Elle. My brother isn’t even ashamed to say it’s because he was obsessed with supermodel Elle MacPherson as a teenager.

I have no idea how my friend Melissa came up with Gage and Devri. If she had given me a heads up before their births, I probably would have steered her in another direction.

But when I looked at those sweet baby faces for the first time, well, their names just seemed to fit.

Which is what happened when my name-hating mother arrived at the hospital to meet her first grandchild.

“Mom, this is Emma,” I told her as she nestled the pink-blanketed bundle into her arms.

“Emma,” my mom repeated as her eyes lovingly gazed at my baby girl. “What a lovely name.”