For the last nineteen and a half weeks, I thought I was having a son. I envisioned a pudgy, blonde-haired boy with my husband’s watchful blue eyes, inquisitive nature, and even temperament; as such, I have referred to the tiny child in my stomach as “he” during months leading up to the ultrasound appointment when the gender would finally be revealed. Against Doug’s wishes, I had even picked out a first name for my future son. Inspired by my husband’s profession and my love of slightly quirky baby names, I decided that my golden haired boy would be named Lennox, Nox for short. I had a clear vision of my pending bundle of joy and mother’s intuition, or so I thought.
Much to my annoyance, my husband was not so easily-convinced and would frequently use female or androgynous pronouns when he interacted with my growing bump. I often found myself correcting him instinctively, and perhaps, a bit irritably. Who was he to doubt my god-given New Momma intuition? In fact, in an effort to make him stop, I promised my husband naming rights if our offspring happened to be female.
The day of our fateful gender reveal ultrasound appointment was akin to a pending single-digit birthday party - we were giddy with excitement. Our offspring would no longer be an alien-esk, tomato-sized mini child floating around in my nether regions; he or she would finally have a disclosed gender, a name, and a cemented identity in both our minds.
As I sat in the stiff-backed ultrasound chair, our youthful technician cheerfully asked us if we had any dreams, intuitive feelings, or special insights about our pending bundle of joy. I quickly asserted that I was resolutely on Team Boy. My ever cautious husband wisely remained noncommittal.
“In my experience, a mother’s intuition is usually right,” she smiled in response as she panned the cool ultrasound wand across my abdomen and reported on Baby Morin’s health and wellness. (Much to my delight and relief, our child received a glowing review in all areas.) Finally, she checked the gender. “It looks like you are going to be the proud parents of a healthy little girl,” she said.
I was dumbfounded. “A girl?”
“Yes,” she responded confidently moving the wand in a circular motion around three glowing red lines that more like abstract art than genitalia, “these are definitely lady parts.”
Mother’s intuition be damned - I should have know that frenzied midnight dance parties and my chronic morning sickness was not caused by a mild mannered boy. My husband is still gleeful over both his victory in our gender identity guessing game and his recently acquired naming rights. Surprisingly, I am not in the least bit upset because I am now the proud mother of an active, healthy baby girl. No mother can ask for more than that. Plus, I have twenty weeks to finagle my way back into the name game, and of course begin the floral headband and tutu buying madness.