If Both Parents Are Listed On The Birth Record And The Childs Name Is Being Changed: Fill & Download for Free

1) Go to the hospital where the child was born, and ask them to update name. Also ask them to give a letter addressed to BBMP, listing the correction in the name. The hospital will ask for your ID proof and submit copies of the same.2) If your child is less than one year old, then go to the birth registration office where you applied. If your child is more than one year old, then all records are moved to the main office of the BBMP office next to Upparpet Police Station, Majestic, Bangalore.3) Get the application form which is the same as a fresh application, and submit it with the following documents:Hospital letterYour passport photocopies/ ID proofsYour school certificate photocopies should have the same name as in the passportAffidavit stating that the name is incorrect and you seek to change or make a correction in the existing birth certificate.4) Submit all these while applying for the name correction in the certificate. The clerk accepting the form may return one or more of the above documents, stating that they are not required. Ask then to add these to the file anyway - when the case comes to the proper official, all these documents are required.5) Go on the appointed day to collect the birth certificate (after 3:30 pm).EDIT: Actually the process is much simpler than I stated above when 2 months back I changed my 2 year daughter’s name.Go to your regional BBMP office (mine was Bommanahalli). You can confirm from the hospital.Submit below documentsFill 2 forms which you can get from the clerkIdentity and Address proofs of both parentsOld birth certificateThe clerk will give you appointment date and time. Visit the office on appointment date/time, give the fees (depending on the number of birth certificate copies you want) and collect the certificate. In my case I had to pay Rs 70 for 4 copies.That’s it!

You can’t put a ligature in a name, because ligatures are a stylistic choice where two letters are replaced with a single glyph that represents both. The name would feature regular letters, and it is up to the person typesetting the name (on a birthday card let’s say) to activate ligatures or not.What you are referring to is a grapheme, which is the smallest unit of a writing system of any given language, and can consist of two or more characters. Æ/æ used to be a ligature of ‘ae’, however, but has been promoted to the status of a proper letter in some languages, including Danish, Norwegian, Icelandic, and Faroese.Pedantry aside, I think there is no harm in naming your child ‘Aemilia’, but naming your child ‘Æmilia’ may result in unexpected frustration, particularly if you travel abroad.PronunciationWhether the name is ‘Æmilia’ or ‘Aemilia’, I think people are inclined to pronounce it correctly, and if they don’t, it will likely not be on account of the grapheme ‘æ’, but on account of the letter combination (ae) itself.Similarly, whether you spell ‘encyclopedia’, ‘encyclopaedia’, or the obsolete ‘encyclopædia’, the pronunciation remains the same. However, the pronunciations of ‘paedophile’ and ‘pedophile’ do differ. This is to illustrate that it might be the digraph ‘ae’ that will bring about confusion, rather than the use of a grapheme.People potentially mispronouncing your child’s name is not a major issue, I think, and when it comes to ‘Æmilia’ I don’t suspect there is a big tendency for it to get mispronounced. If it does, that is an issue which is easy to correct.AlphabetizationThis is probably a very minor concern, but it is worth mentioning. When it comes to alphabetization of the first name, on many—if not most—computers, ‘Æ’ comes after ‘A’, and so even though the grapheme denotes ‘ae’, when alphabetically ordered the name would come in between ‘Az’ and ‘Ba’. No reason to call the emergency number, but do keep in mind that ‘Æ’ and ‘Ae’ are not quite the same. It also emphasizes the fact that ‘Æ’ is indeed a letter, and not a ligatured ‘ae’.Philip Newton:There are many ways to sort or collate things, and the order will depend on the collation you use.If your computer is set up for Danish, then Æ will probably come not between Az and Ba but after Zz and before Øa.If the system just uses Unicode code points for collation (“ASCIIbetical order” extended for Unicode), then Æ will come after Å but before Ç, and all of those will be after Z or z or ~.And so on.So that’s yet another happy fun thing: you never know where you’ll end up in a sorted list, because there isn’t one globally-accepted unique sorting order for symbols.(Speaking of Slovak, I once attended an Esperanto meetup in Slovakia with attendees from all over the Europe and some from evern further afield. In the list of participants who had agreed to have their name published afterwards, all the Christians were sorted after the Hugos — makes perfect sense for a Slovak but I think a German or a Frenchman would not think to look for ‘Ch’ after ‘H’!)Missing lettersNow we get to the real issue with naming your child Æmilia, or using other unconventional letters. ‘Æ’ may be supported by most professional fonts in the West, but if you go to Asia, for example, you may run into problems with your passport, because their register does not include the letter. I can’t find the source, but I read an article that detailed the horrors this person went through because their parents decided to give the person a name starting with an unconventional letter.In In the Name Of the Father (or the troubles with L-caron), graphic- and typeface designer Peter Biľak details his frustrations with his own name in a similar situation:A real-life situation that forced a type designer to evaluate his profession. One small typographic detail (an incorrect version of the diacritic over the letter L) caused troubles with the authorities. With a happy end.ʻIs it all worth it in the end?!ʼ might be the type designerʼs lament in a moment of weakness. As a typeface designer I spend countless hours designing first the basic Latin alphabet, then the extended Latin alphabet (to support languages ranging from Icelandic to Maltese), then mathematical symbols, currency symbols, diacritics, punctuation, Cyrillic characters, Greek characters… The tiniest details of design and spacing have to be checked. With more than 2000 characters per font, it can be a tedious task to make sure that all possible letter combinations look as they should. I could easily spend a week adjusting the spacing of the characters needed to write polytonic Greek. But only a handful of people use polytonic Greek, the basically obsolete system replaced by modern Greek. What else could be accomplished in the time that I spend adjusting characters that someone, somewhere might use sometime? How many lives could be saved? How many trees planted? How many houses rebuilt? What am I doing here? Does it make any sense?Although I usually manage to convince myself that what I do is tremendously important (ʻvisualizing the languageʼ, as I grandiosely call it), there are those weak moments when I am not sure. (After all, how many more fonts does the world really need?) Especially now: our daughter Elisa was born less than a week ago, scrambling all our routines, shuffling all our priorities. How can I compare spending an hour adjusting the spacing of a font to spending an hour soothing my baby daughter?I havenʼt touched a bezier curve for a week now, being a good father. And one of my fatherly duties is to stop by the city hall to request the birth certificate. Armed with all the necessary paperwork, I enter the monumental building of The Hague municipal office. After a brief wait, I get to explain to a charming, efficient lady that I have come to register our newborn.ʻLovely. Congratulations,ʼ she says.I present my ID, my wifeʼs ID and the papers from the hospital. Everything is fine, everything is in order, everyone is smiling, until suddenly she says, ʻAnd what is your name?ʼ The methodical Dutch civil servant canʼt find my name in the system.ʻHow do you spell that again?ʼAs a descendant of the Slavic settlers of the Danube river basin, I have a surname with an accent: Biľak. The name has given me some trouble because of the accent over the L. When I first arrived in the Netherlands, another efficient public servant in his best effort to record my name wrote: Bilʼ ak. ʻPretty close,ʼ I thought at the time. Charming even, how hard they try. Except that when I receive official mail, their software, programmed to capitalize all proper nouns, addresses it to P. Bilʼ Ak, which probably makes my neighbors wonder what African tribe I come from.After ten minutes of fruitless searching in the database for all possible variations of my last name, there are now four determined bureaucrats coming up with ideas. ʻTry searching by first name.ʼ There are over 4000 Peters living in The Hague. ʻTry his birth date.ʼ 253 people born on the same day.After what seems like an eternity of searching, they finally find my records. But instead of relief, I feel concern: will Elisa have to go through this every time? I try to take action.ʻLook, my name is not right in the database. It is not Bilʼ ak, it is Biľak.ʼ The gathering of Dutch civil servants gives me a collective perplexed look.ʻBut thatʼs just what we have, donʼt you see.ʼ I try to remain calm and polite.ʻWell, no it isnʼt.ʼ I even have a convincing argument. ʻMove the cursor one letter at a time. It should be 5 characters: B-i-ľ-a-k, see, not B-i-l-apostrophe-space-a-k, as it is now.ʼʻThe trouble is,ʼ I say in the voice I use in my typography lectures, ʻthat instead of the small letter L with a caron, you used L and an apostrophe. L-caron is a character used only in the Slovak language, so perhaps your computer doesnʼt have access to it.ʼʻNo, thatʼs impossible, we recognize all accents – look.ʼ The assembly of clerks shows off, scrolling through a collection of accented characters. I scan through them, dismissing Latvian L with a cedilla, Polish L with a stroke, Catalan L with a mid dot, another few Lʼs whose uses I donʼt know.Finally I see it. ʻL-caron, there it is!ʼ I exclaim.ʻThatʼs not it, that looks completely different.ʼIndeed, the L-caron that I am pointing to has a different form of caron, something like an inverted circumflex, a little upside-down roof. ʻIt looks different because of the font you use, but it is the right character,ʼ I insist.ʻNo, no, thatʼs a different letter. This is the right one,ʼ says one of the clerks, pointing at L-acute, another letter used in Slovak.I begin to realise that this is going to be difficult. Iʼve lectured on typography to students, to professors, to designers, but never to skeptical city hall employees. The only point of reference they have is my original birth certificate, and I have to agree that the L-acute looks closest to it.I start to explain that L-caron is a palatalized consonant unique to the Slovak language, that it is almost always followed by a vowel, that Jan Hus the Czech religious reformer is credited with the reforms of Czech orthography and first introduced diacritical marks sometime in the 14th century. That Anton Bernolák codified the Slovak language standards in his 1787 Dissertatio philologico-critica de litteris Slavorum and introduced the L-caron.The clerks are not impressed.ʻThis is a different letter, not your L-caron.ʼI start to lose patience.ʻItʼs your font which is wrong. What is it? Oh, I see, itʼs Arial. Well, Arial Unicode is simply wrong. The problem is in the font.ʼ I start to sketch the differences between the correct and incorrect version on the back of an official document. ʻTwo different representations, but the same phonetic value. Both versions are acceptable, but THIS ONE,ʼ I say with dramatic emphasis, ʻis the general standard in Slovak orthography.ʼThe clerks are dismissive, unwilling to negotiate the value of their system font. I am fighting an uphill battle. In the depths of my soul I begin to wonder: how many fonts have I designed? Many. Too many. But Iʼd be willing to change them all to include the incorrect version of the L-caron to save Elisa future troubles.ʻWe can call the Slovak embassy, and they will prove that this is the correct character.ʼ I suggest.ʻNo, that is not legally acceptable.ʼʻSo what would you need in order to accept the correct spelling of the name?ʼʻWe would need your birth certificate with this version of L,ʼ the clerk says, pointing to the incorrect L-caron.I was running out of options. Getting a new birth certificate with the wrong L-caron would be as difficult as changing the font in The Hagueʼs municipal computers. Suddenly I had an idea. On the table was a sample template of the birth certificate, and when I looked closely, I saw that it used Times New Roman.ʻCan we try something? Just a test, nothing binding,ʼ I say.I receive a hesitant approval.ʻTry using this incorrect L-caron and print the birth certificate. I think it will look fine when you print it.ʼʻNo it wonʼt,ʼ the clerks say, ʻit will be just the same.ʼʻPlease, just try it.ʼI am taking a risk, counting on the fact that if the print is really made in Times New Roman, it is highly unlikely that the L-caron is incorrect in that font as well. The clerks enter the name. The ancient printer whines and clacks, then stops. Dramatic silence. I feel like I am performing the ultimate magic trick. The printer ejects the paper and five clerks huddle around it, scrutinizing it carefully. I can hardly breathe. The clerks shake their heads.ʻThis is really strange. It looks different.ʼThe printed version has the correct L-caron. The municipal computers display in Arial Unicode, but they print in Times New Roman, and the birth certificate looks just fine. I feel the thrill of victory and the clerks start to realize that the problem is indeed in the font. Ten minutes later I am holding the correctly spelled certificate in my hands, holding it as tightly as I hold Elisa when she cries.Tiny details in typography seem to make sense again.All in all, I think you can save your child a lot of frustration by using letters that are readily accessible in most languages.

I wrote a bit about the differences here, using my own amended birth certificate as an example. But, in general—if this is the United States and you were born in the United States— it will depend on the state of birth. Typically, and unless the adoptive parents in some states do not request an amended certificate, changes will include:Substituting your adoptive parent name(s) for the name(s) of the birthparents listed on the original birth certificate;Giving you a name, or giving you a new and different name. On many but certainly not all original birth certificates no name is listed for the child, or it is listed as “Female” or even by a last name, such as “Smith.” Sometimes the last name is made up. And sometimes the names of the birthparents are also fictional on the original birth certificate or—as was the case in DC, North Dakota and Illinois years ago—all names of all people involved in the birth are omitted on the original birth certificate. That is, there is no name for the child, the mother, or the father. I’ve seen one of those from DC.Omitting the actual place of birth on the amended birth certificate, specifically the hospital or any other institution where the birth occurred. In some states (e.g., Georgia), the actual place of birth can be changed from the “true place of birth” to that of the residence of the adoptive parents. Go figure.Omitting any information about the birth, such as whether it was a single, twin, or triplet. Sometimes the amended birth certificate will state that the adoptive mother gave birth to other kids in the past, even though it is false. But it would reflect generally that the adoptive mother or parents had already adopted another child before this latest one. Again, the amended certificate promotes a fiction that adoptive kids are factually born to the adoptive parents.The original birth certificate, however, is not amended. It should always remain unchanged, though in some states in the 1930s and 1940s vital records officials would use red indelible ink to write on the original birth certificate, indicating that the child was later adopted. In some cases vital records would literally cross out information and write in different information on the original birth certificate, destroying the information that an adoptee would need later to help determine his or her full identity and heritage.