Back when I used to think about having kids, I always pictured myself with a tiny crew of boys. It seemed so natural, I never even considered I could have a girl. When we got our first ultrasound of Baby Sweet 2015 at ten weeks, I texted a picture to my friend, saying isn’t he cute?! She responded with, wait, how do you know it’s a boy?
When the gender reveal came at 20 weeks, John and I were sure it was a boy. When the lady said no, in fact, you’re having a girl, I asked, are you sure? What are the chances you’re wrong? You could be wrong right? I mean, you can’t be that great at your job.
John didn’t speak for an hour.
We got used to the idea of a girl, but honestly, at that point, I was kind of unsure. I had always imagined a boy. What was I going to do with a girl? I’m not into super girly-things (but for that matter, I’m not into super boy-y things either. Running and eating are gender neutral.)–most of the little girls I had babysat for were way harder than their cute little boy counterparts, and, just…so much pink.
The minute she came I forgot all of these things. The minute I put her in her tiny little girl outfits and dressed her in bows and miniature tights, and a baby church dress, I became the girliest-girl mom. Our mornings are full of pretend make-up (when I get ready) and perfecting pigtails and I’ve subscribed to baby clothes boxes, bought her purses and…lots of pink. (Exception being dinosaurs and football jerseys, cool girls can rock those).
I love having a little girl. She’s spunky and fun and ridiculously adorable. And it’s even cuter when she wants to wear my heels and lotions and put on her lipstick. I literally can’t imagine if she’d been a boy.
In my past posts about being pregnant, I’ve said, with much confidence, how Baby Sweet 2016 is another girl. The main reason wasn’t a (false) intuition like last time, but that I felt, and feel, exactly the same as I did with her. The same nausea, same cravings, (ramen, dark chocolate, Annie’s Goddess dressing), the same heartburn, and even the same belly shape and weight gain. None of my friends have had the same pregnancy symptoms and had it be the opposite gender. So I was sure. We even started calling my belly a girl’s name.
Originally, John didn’t want to find out the gender. One-hundred percent just to annoy me. (He also insisted we didn’t announce that I was pregnant until we told his mom in person, which happened in an airport bathroom at like, 17 weeks. His poor mom was basically the last person to find out). John even ordered a shirt online to show off how cool he was that he didnt’ want to know.
When I didn’t react to his shirt, except with an eye roll and to tell him how irritating it was that he wanted me to keep the gender a secret, mainly that he expected ME to keep it a secret from him, he thought about it for a couple days and came back with, we could have the ultrasound technician write it down and we open it on his birthday.
The appointment came and went, and a week later we sat down at Evo Pizza for his 40th-8 celebration. After a few minutes, John pulled out the envelope. Opened it. Looked at it with a twisted expression. And closed it.
He handed it to me.
I opened it and pulled out the picture.
‘Boy parts!’ In writing. On the printed picture.
I was kind of expecting it, since I was so sure, and so wrong, about the first. Plus, it had to be a boy, since we’d already picked out a girl’s name.
Our reaction was the same as it was with Baby Sweet 2015. I didn’t really know what to say. We were so set on it being another girl. Because that’s all we know, and we love having a girl.
That sounds terrible. But don’t misunderstand, it’s not disappointment, it’s not that we’re not excited. The opposite. We’ve already discussed what position he’ll play on the Nebraska football team, and how could you not get excited about John’s dream to have a Husker football player in the family? We just don’t really know what to think. Again. And we all know how that turned out…
PS-We were so unprepared for a boy, we don’t have any, literally not one, idea what to call him. In the meantime, John is calling him Bubbah. And I’m really afraid that’s going to stick.