Something weird happened at the chiropractor. No, I don’t mean “inappropriate touching” weird. The doctor asked me the general questions a new doctor asks: what meds am I on, what is the name of my husband, how far along is the baby. Then he asked if we had a name picked yet. I said we did, thinking he was just being polite. He asked what it was. I told him, and he confirmed the spelling. Then he wrote her name down in my chart. In ink. I saw it. He’s the first of anyone other than the occasional friend or family member who’s written her name as HER NAME. And then as he was massaging my right buttock (oh, it hurt so good!), he asked how Sun was doing. She was fine (albeit a bit active). But I was overcome. “Sun.” Sun. She wasn’t just our little “thing” anymore. She now had her own identity. An identity shared with a stranger.

Since that visit to the chiropractor, there’s been a shift with me. I am no longer “growing a baby” (as my OB tells me); rather, I am Sun’s exclusive home for the next four months. It is no longer about me but about her. I get to keep her all to myself for only four short months more (back pain and all) and then she’ll belong all to herself. She’ll be just “Sun.”