Oh, Boy.

I have a pretty good gut. I don't mean size-wise, although that is quite true nowdays; and not digestive-wise, though that is getting truer. I mean that when I have a sense about things, I'm usually right. Before even discovering we were pregnant, I had a sudden strong sense that I was carrying a baby girl. I was just driving along one day, and the thought occurred to me out of nowhere. I smiled and daydreamed in pink.

As we went through weeks 1-20, I was open to the idea that I might be wrong. We looked at boy names, and we looked at girl names. But the names we really focused on narrowing down were girl names. Friends around us were also giving us ideas, and later admitted that they, too, were convinced that we were having a girl. I can't say that I confidently planned on a girl, but if I'm honest, I will admit that I was trying to think of ways to incorporate pink into a nursery that wouldn't be to obnoxious. In Target's baby aisle, I had narrowed down which flowery boppy cover I liked best. Even so, Michael and I were not confident enough in my instincts and not patient enough to wait until week 40, so it was a no-brainer that we decided find out for sure at our Level 2 ultrasound.

We were both anxious, nervous, and excited on the big day. Meeting Michael for lunch at Abbott's McDonald's beforehand, I watched in amusement as he tripped over and knocked down a "wet floor" sign making everyone stare, and I shook my head in wonderment as he led the way to a table, hands holding nothing, as I struggled with our tray of food and two backpacks. He was nervous. It was adorable.

In the waiting room of the OB office, my stomach turned into a sanctuary for butterflies as well. To keep our mind off the wait, we picked up a parenting magazine, and found ourselves laughing at an article on breaking unwanted behaviors in toddlers. After a few anecdotes of stuffing food into ears, refusing to wear clothes in public, and breath-holding for attention (the advice pairing this one was to ignore: "the worst that can happen is that your child will turn blue and lose consciousness for a few seconds"), I looked at Michael and said, "um, wait. Kids acutally do those things. We're having one of those."

And then my name was called. We had a particularly grumpy ultrasound technician. Perhaps she was having a bad day, but she just seemed like one of those people who have a bad day every day. She verified that we did want to find out the sex of our baby, dumped a pool of goop on my belly and went to work. There was no, "there's your baby!," no "this is what we're looking for here," no "everything looks good." You would have thought we were examining a species of plant. At 21 weeks, I had not felt our baby move yet with strong definition, which was making me increasingly anxious. To see our baby, with its sweet face, huge nose, little arms, and teeny shadow feet with all 10 toes, was quite profound. I wondered for a split second: is she sure that this is my uterus she's looking at? Could there really be something so perfect and complete-looking inside of me? I was waiting for the tech to exclaim, "hey, it is there! Look how cute and put-together it is! Isn't this exciting?!" Okay, I can't blame her for not blowing a trumpet fanfare, but there was no smile, no touch of warmth or reassurance in her tone whatsoever. It was simply a lesson in fetal anatomy.

"Here's the arm. Here's the length from the elbow to the wrist..." as she went through our scientific lecture, I gave myself reassurance and praise to God. As a pediatric hospice nurse, I see all kinds of things that go horribly wrong. I know of countless diangnoses that make life incompatible for an infant, and many of these are discovered in pregnancy. I have counseled the mothers of babies who are not expected to live. I have taken care of the babies that do but aren't expected to live long. I'm pretty good at keep persepctive, though; I am well-aware that I see a very distinct, very tiny population as part of the work that I do, and how low the risk is of something like that happening. Even so, because I know what things to look for, I breathed a prayer for everything that was right. "I see four chambers to the heart..." thank you, God. "Both hemispheres to the brain are intact..." thank you God... "both kidneys look good..." thank you, thank you, thank you....

She went on with the lesson. "Here's a foot, there's another foot, oh, there's a penis so it looks like it's a boy, here's the left knee..."

'm sorry, WHAT?! Did she just say a boy?! Could she have given us a little warning on that one? Like, "okay, I know what you're having," or "are you ready to find out?!" or "guess what?" No, a mere "there's a penis." There wasn't even a pause, no vocal inflection change, nothing. I wanted to put everything on pause to absorb this news, because it was only then that I realized how much I really thought that our baby was a girl. So many things spun around in my head. We can't name him Katherine or Emily. There will be no flowery boppy cover. We can't paint his room pink. Okay, so technically we could, but I was not up for explaining the color choice to visitors.

But more than the name, and more than the aesthetics of the nursery and accessories, I was disappointed with myself. I have always thought that I was in tune with my body. How could I be carrying something so intimately inside me and be so wrong about my instincts? If I had been singing and talking to this baby and deep down thought I was bonding with a girl, does that mean that the bonding didn't count?

Michael's sister sweetened the transition, as when I arrived home, there was a giant "It's a Boy!" balloon taking up our kitchen that she brought over when she heard the news of a nephew. Indeed, this was something to celebrate. And I was getting used to the idea. But by the end of the night, I was overtired and hormonal. Did I mention hormonal? I started to cry.

Michael, unphased by this common occurence, asked "what's wrong, honey?" How he can be so patiently sympathetic and gentle after so many of my breakdowns I will never know. He is an incredible husband, I'll tell you that.

"Idon'tknowanythingaboutboyyyyyys!" I cried, followed by pathetic hiccupy sobs. It was somewhat true. I have a sister, we don't have any cousins, my Dad has a sister, and my Mom has sisters. What did I know about boys? I felt simply inadequate to mother a son.

I went on. "I don't know how to play with trucks and I don't even want to! I can't throw a baseball and I won't touch a fish! He's not even going to LIKE me!" Michael managed not to laugh at me, another strength of his. "Of course he's going to like you, he's going to LOVE you!" Sweet sentiment, but I was already on to the next panicked thought. I had started a journal to this baby. And I kept the language completely androgenous, just in case, but still, I was journaling... to a boy. "He's not even going to want to read it! The cover of the journal is purple with flowers! What boy is going to want to read a purple pregnancy journal?!"

Michael answered, "our son will. Now go to bed, you're overtired."

I just needed that first day to be surpised. Needless to say, we are absolutely thrilled. We have always wanted to have at least one boy and at least one girl. As Michael says, "as many as it takes to have one of each. But let's hope that just means two." We are grateful to have found out early on that we would be blessed with a boy. It has helped me to bond with this baby so much more, and while I'm not planning to buy trucks or trains any time soon, I am happy to be daydreaming in blue.

Good night, my sweet boy. I love you.