Hoping For Another Vagina
Tomorrow is the big day. Well, one of many big days to come, I suppose. It is a morning filled with doctor’s appointments and most importantly, the next fetal assessment. Now I know the medical people are going to make sure all the bits are there and working as best as they can see, and that it’s to assess the baby’s health, but we have more important things to worry about.
Tomorrow we can find out the gender. And we will, as long as the little bugger keeps its legs uncrossed.
And I totally hope it’s another girl. And Husband totally hopes it will be a boy. And anybody who claims that they “don’t care” is fucking lying. We all have our preferences, at least until the reality sets in.
What? Can’t believe I said it out loud? Have you read none of my other posts? I am the girl everyone loves to hate because I say the shit they think but don’t have the balls to verbalize.
Yeah. I want it to be healthy. I want everything to look normal. I want to give this baby the best chance at the best life. And along the way I want to dress it up in little skirts and pink onesies and watch my husband fall in love all over again.
He, on the other hand, needs to balance the hormones in this house. He wants a son to share man shit with, I guess. He wants a little leprechaun to dress in baseball hats and take fishing. Not that he won’t do that with Destroyer, but it’s a little different.
Now relax. If it’s a boy I will be thrilled to experience the amazing bond that occurs between a mother and her son. My girlfriends with sons say that this is extra special. I will love my child with every essence of my soul. I look forward to only having to explain about periods and tampons once. I look forward to only have to deal with Husbands reaction when Destroyer goes on her first date ( probably around age 30) once.
And if it’s a girl, Husband will fall into the same fiercely protective and all consuming love he has with #1. Because it’s impossible not to.
But you know what? Boys have balls. And tiny little penises that pee straight up. And they don’t have vaginas. And they like to break things. And they don’t wear pink. It will be a huge adjustment.
But at least I will have another 4 months or so to get ready for it. Unlike those people who would rather be “surprised”. Guess what? I’m gonna be surprised tomorrow, too. And then I’ll have 4 months to make certain that the room is the right color, and I’m not dressing my son in hand-me downs from his big sister, if it turns out to be that way.
I don’t understand what the big deal is about finding out at the end? It is driving me up the fucking wall already. Because it’s fun to know. We can name it early and it becomes more real, you know?
To each their own, I suppose. But this bitch is gonna find out if it’s an innie or an outie. And when they show that it’s a girl, someone will be buying her dinner.