I looked at my newborn through the reinforced nursery glass. I didn't feel like any name fit. She was nearly 24-hours old and her bassinet was still labeled "Baby Girl Jansen." With my two sons, I had strong opinions about names. I hadn't thought much about girls' names because, well, I didn't want a girl.

How could I not want a girl after two boys? That's what everyone wanted to know. And the best answer I had was "I'm used to boys." Maybe it had to do with fear of being a role model. The boys looked up to and copied their dad. Someone watching what I do and doing the same? Gulp.

Whatever the reason, my secret was this: I just didn't feel that maternal love towards my baby. After I had my boys, I thought each of them was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Her? Well, she was just a baby. In the delivery room, they automatically handed her to me after cleaning her up. I actually said, "Let my husband hold her first!" He gladly did, and the nurse looked at me strangely, as if she wondered what was wrong with me. I wondered, too.

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Since I wasn't coming up with any suggestions, my husband suddenly suggested naming her after his grandmother, Evelyn. I said, "Fine, whatever." His grandmother could have been Prunella and I wouldn't have cared.

She had jaundice and so had to stay two extra days in the hospital. Cheery visitors flowed in and out. Feeling guilty, crazy, and horrible, I said nothing to anyone — except one friend who arrived just as visiting hours were ending. I was alone, as the crowd had just left. She found me sobbing, and immediately rushed over, assuming something terrible had happened to Evelyn. "What am I going to do with this baby? I only know about boys!" I wailed. She looked at me blankly. I suddenly worried she might call the authorities, put on a fake smile, and changed the subject.

I hoped the familiar madly-in-love feeling would kick in once we got home. It didn't. Every single one of the dozens of gifts was pink. OK, I lie. One was lavender. But otherwise, it looked like a Pepto-Bismol factory exploded. All the frills made me twitch. I took good care of her, of course. But as if it was an obligation to go through the motions. Like I was babysitting her. She cried all the time, had reflux and colic, which neither of the boys had. I wondered why I had to get "this" baby.

And then I soured on the name Evelyn. I reasoned (if you can call it that) that her name, so hastily decided when I was jacked up on Percocet, was what bothered me. I started calling her Natalie. I looked up, "How to change a baby's name," and considered it until she was nearly 3 months old. Then I did the best thing I could have done. I started talking to other moms. Many admitted similar feelings. Some felt indifferent to girls, others boys, but all felt incredible guilt about it. And most hadn't admitted it to anyone until I asked because it's so weird and embarrassing. None of us knew why this sometimes happens to good moms. We all had theories, but the bottom line was I knew I wasn't singularly out of my mind.

The cloud lifted shortly thereafter, and I finally fell in love. Evelyn is now a gorgeous, funny, incredible little girl. Do I even need to say that I wouldn't trade her for any child in the universe? We have a blast with hair styles, manicures, silly dance contests, sleepovers — and yes, shopping for frilly outfits.