As we sleepily pulled out of the driveway this morning – me in my pajamas and Ryan in his preppy professor duds, we discovered a slew of packages littering our front walk from the street clear up to the porch. We stopped the car to discover the most thoughtful Valentine’s Day surprise. A dozen friends from across the country each sent little Hudson James their favorite childhood books with personal inscriptions from the sender. Blame the pregnancy hormones, but I really just can’t handle how sweet it is.
I wish I could say I wanted a boy all along, but I didn’t. I don’t like guns, or cowboys, or smelly body odor. I’m definitely not one of those reasonable people that says, “I don’t care what we have so long as they’re healthy.” (As though the rest of us would readily sacrifice health for gender selection.) Nope, I dreamed of having a girl. We picked out a name, I bought a baby girl dress, and I pictured the two of us baking together on cold December days.
So here I am with warm jelly slathered on my belly staring up at a flat screen ultrasound monitor waiting to hear three words, “It’s a girl.” Of course the anatomy is the last part of the visit, so I have to wait. I’m uncharacteristically patient, especially for a pregnant lady who doesn’t have any patience to begin with. While I wait, I watch the most beautiful little baby twist and turn in front of me. The four images she prints off at the end will be poured over again and again, so I soak in the real live movements while I can. Where 14 weeks ago there was nothing, I now see brain hemispheres and chambers of a tiny heart. I see fingers and toes wiggle and stretch. I could stare at this screen all day. Then, I see it.
The ultrasound tech smiles, “Looks like you’re having a…”
“A boy?” I interrupt.
“A boy,” she confirms.
I’d like to say that all of the girl stuff went out the window, that I’m over the moon, or that part of me knew it all along. Truthfully, my heart sinks. The technician hands me a few black and white screenshots, and it’s over.
I’m so in love with this little guy, boy parts and all, that crying doesn’t feel right. I send Ryan a text message with the news and start my car. My mind floods with thoughts of who he’ll be when he grows up. Will he take after his dad and be a gifted speaker? Will he be like his mom and kill it at Scrabble? He could be the president or a pastor. He could write screenplays or cure diseases.
So maybe we don’t bond over wedding dresses or wingbacks…maybe instead we have impassioned theological discussions. He’ll probably hang back on pedicure days, but maybe he’ll be the one who finally beats me at Words with Friends. I’ll be that mom at golf tournaments, and he and Ryan will probably start a men’s fashion blog together where they banter over hair products and English spread collar shirts. I know it’s not what I had in mind, but turns out God had a different plan, and maybe it’s better than mine anyway.
Last night, your dad and I could barely fall asleep. Knowing we would SEE you for the first time…suddenly, the restless sleep,
morning all-day sickness, peeing every half hour; it all felt 1000% worth it. It’s one thing to see a barely-there line on a dollar store pregnancy test, but to see you living and growing and MOVING? Surreal.
So, this is it. This is where you’ll be living and growing and moving for the next seven months. Your new digs are roughly the size of a grapefruit. Spacious, I know. To give you a little perspective, my uterus was the size of a small pear before you set up shop in there. The medical community sure loves their fruit analogies, because they don’t stop there. In fruit-speak, you are a kumquat. Except way more adorable.
Let me just tell you that you surpassed our expectations. All one and a quarter inches of you. We could see your little heart beating so strong and quick. You started dancing, and your dad’s eyes lit up. I don’t think he could have shut his mouth if he tried. So, make yourself at home, my little kumquat. And keep the dance party going.