That's right, we're having another boy. Despite what my supposedly psychic half-sister, and pretty much all my friends and family, and even the crazy lady in the park in Miami told me, baby #2 is most definitely a boy. In fact, "definitely a boy" were the exact words of the ultrasound tech. She carefully typed out "IT'S A BOY" on the screen and gleefully pointed out the scrotal sack, just in case it wasn't obvious that we weren't having a daughter with a tiny third leg.
It's a little late now to pretend I wasn't hoping for a girl. After all, it's not something I've ever been shy about putting out into the universe. I have wanted a daughter since I was a little girl myself. I know some people will think I'm petty and selfish for having a preference of the gender of my child, although personally, I think it goes without saying that above all else, I - and every other parent on the face of the earth - want a healthy baby. And I am so grateful that this little guy seems to be developing right on track and has all his parts (and I do mean all of them).
But one of the things you guys tell me you appreciate about my parenting posts is my honesty, and while I realize many of you might not understand my feelings, I wouldn't be true to myself - or any of you - if I said I wasn't pretty sad about the fact that I'm not having a daughter.
Just in case you're wondering, I do understand how this whole chromosome thing works. I knew the odds were 50/50 and I certainly wasn't guaranteed a daughter. But as much as I tried to prepare myself for the possibility of another boy, there was a part of me - has always been a part of me - that simply believed I was meant to have a girl. Not because of the dresses and the tea parties and the dolls and the prom and the wedding (although I do want those things, so, so badly), but because I really wanted the opportunity to raise a happy, secure, confident girl. I never envisioned a future without a daughter. It just didn't seem possible. To be honest, it still doesn't. (Although as the saying goes, "balls don't lie." Or was that "ball"...)
The day after the ultrasound, when I was in the car with John and his brother, they started discussing their best Christmas ever, most notably the go-kart they received. "Is he old enough for a dirt bike?" Mike asked. "Or maybe a quad?" "He's definitely almost ready for a go-kart," John responded (somehow managing to ignore the "not on your life" look on my face). And while I am so happy that John will get to relive his favorite childhood moments with our sons, it was also a painful reminder of the things I won't experience with a daughter. Several people have said to me, "There's always the third," and I appreciate their optimism. But I don't think a third is in the cards for us. My sanity has always been hanging on by a rather precarious thread. Two boys will probably stretch it even thinner. A third would break me for sure.
So while I know I should be celebrating the impending arrival of baby boy #2, a part of me is mourning the baby girl that wasn't meant to be. I love Jack more than I ever thought was possible, and despite the fact that it seems highly unlikely I could ever love another boy that much, I'm 99.9% sure I will. Who knows, maybe I have a latent soccer-mom gene that will kick in in eight years or so. Maybe we'll adopt a daughter some day, or maybe one day I'll wake up and realize I'm okay without one. (Sure, that hasn't happened in the past 33 years, but you never know.) Maybe a life full of superheroes and dragons will prove to be a lot simpler than one full of Barbie and Bieber.
Besides, I never really liked the color pink very much anyway.