Early in my pregnancy, like thousands of other expectant parents, Scott and I scanned baby-naming Web sites, checked out the top 100 lists, and sounded out syllables that complimented our last name. Discontent with all the choices, we soon realized we wasted perfectly good names on our pets.

But since we already had one too many Rascals running around the house peeing on things she wasn't supposed to, we researched our German and Norwegian roots and, from our maternal grandmothers, discovered the name Rainey Olefina. We fell in love with it immediately and swore to keep the name under wraps from well-meaning family, friends, and co-workers who thought it was their business to name our firstborn child.

So you can imagine my shock when, almost nine months later, my office mate said, "Whatever you do, don't name your baby Rainey."

As it turns out, her disapproval stemmed from personal experience. Her ex-husband had recently had a new baby with his new wife, and, of all things, they named her Rainey. We got over it with the help of a big, adorable, chenille duck she brought me the next day.

I understood my co-worker's reservations. I really did. But Scott and I didn't let that stop us from giving our daughter the same name a week later when she was born.

As we emerged from the haze of brand-new parenthood, we started to wonder if Rainey was living up to her name. She wasn't a sunny child. She hardly ever flashed us a smile, not even a gassy grin. She preferred to scream. And scream and scream and scream.

All those oh-so-helpful parenting books called her temperament "difficult," "fussy," "high-need" and "serious." And if I had a penny for every time someone said "What a serious baby," or "Someone's grumpy," or even, "What's wrong with that baby?" I'd be able to afford the Ivy League school where the "experts" in these books articulated someone with her disposition was likely to succeed.

Though I was thrilled at the idea of my daughter excelling academically and, later in life, in various occupations where seriousness is appreciated, at the time, I resented anyone who classified Rainey this way and secretly hoped she would outgrow her stormy personality.

But the only thing she's outgrown in the past two years are those cute little onesies and her obsession with putting things in her mouth. As a toddler, Rainey still tends to whine and complain quite a bit. She's also extremely moody and reluctant to warm up to new people, places and things, which makes moving to a new town and getting invited to playgroups, well, "difficult."

Coincidentally since our move to the Pacific Northwest, I've discovered Rainey's personality is a lot like the Oregon weather. Her name sounds a lot like it, too. For over half the year, it pours. And pours and pours and pours. For someone who's accustomed to four seasons, the excessive rain can be a bit depressing. It's almost enough to make me want to change her name to Sunny and move the family to Florida.

But luckily we arrived in this soggy state in June, at the tail end of the wet season. For five dry months, we climbed across jungle gyms, strolled through flower-blanketed gardens, napped on grassy hillsides while listening to outdoor concerts, and picnicked beside the shores of a swollen river. We propped ourselves against sand dunes and built castles underneath a canopy of bright light blue, and hiked among thick forests, filling our senses with pleasures mankind can only hope to one day bottle and sell.

As I sit here typing these words to the beat of the raindrops hitting my rooftop, I think about those days, and my mind wanders, like it usually does, to my daughter: her brilliant smile, the sweet sound of her laughter, her soft, sensitive spirit, and her generous, attentive, and artistic nature that fewer than half the people who meet her get to see. And I look out my window to the overcast sky with a sort of thankfulness - not for the sunny August afternoons to come - but for the rain, and the richness and beauty it brings to my life.