Dear Past Tom: The Utter Chaos of Choosing Italian Monikers

Tom
2026-05-06T06:50:40+02:00

Dear Past Tom (specifically, the deeply naive version of me from roughly six months ago who confidently volunteered to help my sister-in-law pick out an Italian moniker for her upcoming arrival),

You're currently hunched over a lukewarm flat white in the Costa Coffee at Queen Charlotte's Hospital, aggressively pointing out a massive paperback of baby names while she breathes through early Braxton Hicks. You think you're being immensely helpful. You think your former career in journalism makes you uniquely qualified to parse through the cultural nuances of Mediterranean naming conventions. Stop panicking, and more importantly, stop talking. I'm writing this to you from the other side of this bizarre linguistic journey, where my own twins are two years old, currently covered in an unidentifiable sticky substance, and entirely ignoring whatever beautiful, lyrical names we eventually settled on for them anyway.

I know exactly why you're drawn to this specific section of the book. Italian names are having a massive moment globally because they sound incredibly romantic. They roll off the tongue. They make you think of warm Tuscan evenings and expensive olive oil, rather than the reality of modern parenting, which is mostly just wiping up damp cereal in a rainy London postcode. You're trying to steer away from the harsher-sounding names of our parents' generation, aiming for something melodic and vowel-heavy like Leonardo, Giovanni, or Valentina. But let me warn you, the reality of choosing one of these names is an absolute logistical minefield.

The sheer chaos of romantic Mediterranean options

Right now, the girls are mercifully asleep, and I've selfishly draped their Colorful Dinosaur Bamboo Baby Blanket over my own knees because the boiler is acting up again and I refuse to pay current heating prices. Honestly, this blanket is one of the very few nursery items I'd save if the house caught fire. I initially bought it because the little turquoise and lime green dinosaurs looked reasonably cheerful without being a complete eyesore, but the actual fabric has entirely ruined me for normal textiles. It's a blend of 70% organic bamboo and 30% organic cotton, which basically means it possesses some sort of dark magic that warms my freezing legs while somehow keeping the twins cool when they inevitably sweat through their afternoon naps. It's survived roughly four hundred trips through the washing machine without the colours fading, which is a minor miracle in a house where everything else we own is permanently stained with mashed banana.

I bring up the blanket because one of the twins has taken to pointing at the dinosaurs and shouting what sounds suspiciously like 'Mateo', which brings me back to the data. Some very tired researcher at the Italian statistical institute apparently crunched the numbers recently, though I'm fairly convinced tracking baby trends is just guesswork based on who shouts the loudest at the nursery gates. Allegedly, native Italians are entirely obsessed with Leonardo for boys and Sofia for girls. But over in the States, and increasingly creeping into British nurseries, everyone is naming their kids Mateo or Leo. There's a strange disconnect between what we think sounds authentically Italian and what actual Italians are using, which usually leads to a lot of awkward conversations when you finally take that family holiday to Rome and realise you've named your kid the equivalent of 'John' but with more aggressive hand gestures.

The vowel situation that will thoroughly test your patience

The Italian language, as beautiful as it sounds when shouted across a piazza by a man holding a tray of espresso, is incredibly rigid with grammar. You've got your 'o' endings for the boys and your 'a' endings for the girls, and absolutely zero wiggle room for anything remotely ambiguous. If you're a modern millennial parent trying to find a chic, gender-neutral option that doesn't force a tiny infant into a hyper-specific linguistic box, you're essentially going to hit a brick wall at two hundred miles an hour.

You spend hours scouring late-night forums, desperately looking for an exception, only to realise that the entire language is built to aggressively categorise everything from a newborn child to a kitchen table. You end up looking at random nature nouns like 'Cielo', which just means sky, and wondering if you've the sheer audacity to name a child 'Sky' in a language you only vaguely understand from an app on your phone. The lack of neutral options is deeply exhausting when you just want a nice, soft-sounding name that doesn't immediately conjure the image of an imposing mob boss from a nineties film.

And you can't just slap a different vowel on the end of a traditional name and call it a day, because that completely changes the meaning, or worse, turns a beautiful historical name into a type of regional pasta.

Apparently historically Italians name the first son after the paternal grandfather, which we definitely aren't doing because my dad's name is Keith.

If you're currently panic-buying baby gear while arguing over the exact spelling of Lorenzo, you might want to browse Kianao's organic baby clothing collection before the decision fatigue fully sets in.

The absolute pressure of geographical monikers

Then you've the people naming their kids after places they went to on a budget airline. Siena, Milan, Capri. It sounds immensely glamorous until you remember that naming your child after a chic European city puts an unbelievable amount of pressure on them to be stylish. You can't be named Milan and walk around a local soft play centre in soiled jogging bottoms with a bit of dried toast stuck to your forehead. It just doesn't work. The aesthetic clash is too severe.

And don't even get me started on the mythological trend. Half the parents we know have suddenly started reading heavy romantic fantasy novels and decided their tiny, frail newborn needs the name of an ancient Roman god. Apollo, Aurora, Flora. It's a massive reputation to live up to. I watched an Aurora absolutely launch a piece from her Gentle Baby Building Block Set across a room last week, and while those blocks are wonderfully soft and great for early motor skills, the sheer ferocity of the throw didn't exactly scream 'goddess of the dawn'.

The mandatory NHS waiting room acoustic check

Before you lock in any melodic, vowel-heavy name for your sister-in-law's baby, you absolutely must consider the practical acoustic test. Our health visitor, a lovely woman who always looks mildly concerned for my general sanity, vaguely suggested that highly complicated names might cause a tiny bit of frustration down the line, though I'm pretty sure she was just projecting after watching me struggle to spell my own basic surname on a form.

If you choose a name like Niccolò or Chiara, you've to accept that for the rest of your natural life, you'll be correcting well-meaning receptionists, teachers, and grandparents. You're going to hear 'Sierra' instead of 'Chiara' at least twice a week. You have to decide right now if you've the emotional stamina to gently correct people over and over again while operating on three hours of sleep and a lukewarm coffee. Rather than spending your evenings agonising over the traditional spelling, whispering the pronunciation into a bathroom mirror like a deranged actor warming up for a fringe play, and deeply overthinking how it sounds next to your older kid's terribly British name, you should probably just shout it out the back door and see how it feels on the vocal cords.

During this same panicked phase of early parenthood, we also picked up the Flutter Sleeve Organic Cotton Baby Bodysuit for the girls. It's perfectly alright, and the organic cotton is admittedly very soft against their skin, but I'll be completely honest with you—those tiny ruffled sleeves are essentially just decorative fabric gutters that funnel dropped porridge directly into their armpits. It does the job of clothing them, but it's a bit fiddly when you're dealing with a squirming toddler who fights dressing like you're trying to wrestle a badger into a tuxedo.

So, Past Tom, put the baby name book down. Let your sister-in-law breathe. Whatever name she picks, the kid is eventually going to drop a biscuit in a puddle and cry about it for forty-five minutes anyway.

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Questions you're probably too tired to ask

Do we need Italian heritage to use these names?
Look, I'm from a family where 'Gary' is considered a strong traditional choice, so I'm hardly the gatekeeper of Mediterranean culture. You don't need the heritage, but you do need the confidence to look an elderly relative in the eye and explain why you've named your child Vincenzo when you're from a long line of builders in Essex. Just own it.

How do you actually pronounce Chiara?
It's 'Kee-ah-ra', but you might as well accept right now that every substitute teacher, dental receptionist, and distant aunt is going to call her 'Sierra' or 'Chee-ara' until the end of time. It's a beautiful name, but it comes with a lifetime subscription to gently correcting people.

Will a melodic name sound weird with a clunky British surname?
Oh, absolutely. There's a jarring acoustic thud when you pair a gorgeous flowing first name with something deeply blunt. 'Alessandro Higgins' sounds like a man who rides a Vespa to his job at a local accounting firm. But honestly, nobody uses their full name outside of bank forms and graduation ceremonies, so try not to lose too much sleep over the flow.

Are there any genuinely gender-neutral options?
Not really, unless you want to start naming your child after random weather events or inanimate objects. The grammar of the language is violently opposed to neutrality. You're better off picking a traditional name and shortening it to a nickname like 'Ale' or 'Dani' if you want something that doesn't scream a specific gender.

What's the most popular choice right now?
Apparently, Leonardo and Sofia are taking over the entire world, while Mateo is climbing the charts faster than I can run after a toddler with a stolen set of keys. If you pick one of these, just prepare yourself for the inevitable moment when three other kids turn around at the playground when you shout it.