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Ding dong!

2008-01-26 - 7:53 a.m.

A boy! That’s right, there was apparently no mistaking it, we’re going to have a boy!

My reactions are kind of surprising me. I’m excited, no question. I’m also a bit somewhat definitely more nervous at the thought of a boy. Diapering girls seems simpler – wipe the groove front to back – but boys have, well, obstacles to work around. And they shower you if they pee while being changed. Don’t boys take longer to toilet train? Aren’t they more rambunctious and hard to control? Don’t they learn a slightly different way than girls do? I know I’m stereotyping and that each child has his or her own unique personality, but I don’t know what this one’s personality will be yet, so all I have to go on are stereotypes.

I’ve always felt that I grew up in a world of women. Yes, I have a father and two brothers, but my brothers didn’t come along until I was grown up, really, and my parents separated when I was around 11 years old, and even before that I didn’t really see a lot of my dad, who worked long hours during the week and was often off doing one of his hobbies like flying or cross-country skiing on the weekends. In contrast, my mom stayed home until my parents split and got custody after, and my grandmother came out from Montreal almost every weekend. And, of course, my sister was my constant companion (ironic when you realize we’re almost estranged now and have been this way for years).

I also feel a vague guilt at being excited at having a boy, almost as if I’m telegraphing the message to Grommet that I’d rather have a boy and boys are better. I also have to stop myself from getting vaguely defensive when other people are either excited or comment on how excited we must be. I know they’re just happy for us and I’d like to think they’d be just as happy for us if we announced we’re having another girl, but I can’t help but look for signs that they’re a little too happy. I know it’s silly, but there it is. I’m sure the fact that there were people who assumed we wanted a boy when we were first pregnant has something to do with this, as does the fact that at least one person made the bald statement “I hope it’s a boy this time” when learning we were pregnant again.

I am also oddly relieved that I can keep saying to Grommet, “you’re the best/the most wonderful/my favourite girl in the whole wide world”. I know it’s such a minor thing, but it did cross my mind so I thought I’d divulge it.

We’re not likely to have any more children, so I really am glad we’re getting to have one of each sex. I’m a little sorry to let go of my vision of the little girl that would have been Grommet’s little sister, but would have been equally sorry to let go of my vision of her little brother.

J, of course, is elated. This mirrors exactly the situation he grew up with since I think the age gap between him and his older sister is almost the same. He’s also happy to have one child to carry his name (boys get his last name, girls get mine) and I know he’s got visions of himself as a hockey dad (his dreams of having a future NHL’er in the family have been slightly tempered by an acknowledgment that this child may well have my agility and athletic ability), and fixing cars with, and generally bonding with his son. He’s close to his dad and I know that also factors into his vision for the future with his own son. The fact that I know he’ll be a very involved, active dad tugs at my heart.

By the way, in a forehead slapping, “Duh” moment, we discovered that Biscuit’s placenta is plastered right across the front of my uterus, which of course dulls the kicks. I had totally discounted this because the tech who did the very early 8-week ultrasound had mentioned that the placenta was high and on the back, and it hadn’t occurred to me that they’d be wrong or that it could migrate as it grew. Whew!

So yeah, a boy! One of each! We’re thrilled! The complex, vaguely conflicting emotions this knowledge has stirred up are still overshadowed by the !!!!!! factor. I keep muttering “a boy!” to myself and J just looks at me and beams.

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