On the morning before Thanksgiving, I had my “big” ultrasound done. The main purpose of this ultrasound was to make sure that the baby was progressing normally and that all parts of the anatomy were sound (4 chambers of the heart, proper placement of kidneys and diaphragm, two well-formed hemispheres of the brain, etc…) As a bonus, this is also the time that you get to find out the sex of the baby. Of course, the baby has to cooperate in order for this to occur and our little peanut did not want to do that for the first 30 minutes or so.
Eventually though (after much poking and prodding by the ultrasound tech), the baby flipped around and we were told that there is about a 90% likelihood that our baby is a girl. While the tech didn’t get the direct “money shot” that she would have liked, there definitely did not appear to be the presence of boy parts at any point in time. So, wow. A girl.
To be honest with you, my first surge of emotion was excitement, followed (very) closely by something akin to panic. I know this sounds nuts since I am girl, but I don’t know what to do with a girl child. I’ve spent the last 4 years as a boy’s mom. I understand the rough and tumble playfulness, the obsession with building blocks and trains, the fact that every single diaper change for the first 2 years is a potential shower if you aren’t careful. How exactly does one go about diapering a girl? I’m sure I will figure it out in the first 24 hours, but the concept is so foreign to me.
In case I haven’t mentioned it 1,083 times on here, Parker is an agreeable and pleasant child. He is not prone to dramatics or mood swings and you can almost always reason with him. While I know that every child is different, I have heard horror stories about little girls being much more demanding and, er, aggressive than their male counterparts. I know that my brain is probably processing worst case scenario right now, but I have this fear of a hellion running around wielding her Barbie like a sword and commanding the Irishman and Parker to do her bidding.
Then she’ll hit her preteens and all hell will really break loose. She’ll be sulky and sullen and prone to Goth-like fits of darkness and rage. She and I will have legendary fights while the boys and the dogs hide under tables and chairs. She’ll do the exact opposite of everything we tell her and challenge authority of every kind. Once this phase is over, she’ll start dating (Lord help us). She’ll bring home the most inappropriate person she can find and have the audacity to actually get a life of her own without consulting us. Sure, she’ll eventually mellow out and grow up, but not before every piece of hair on my head is grey and my wrinkles tell the story of stress and fear over all of the nights when I prayed desperately that she would make it home in one piece.
In other words, I’m terrified that she will be just like me. I bet my mom just read this and is having fits of laughter and glee that I’m about to get exactly what I deserve. My father, on the other hand, has no idea what I’m talking about since to him, I was the picture of angelic agreeability and thoughtfulness.
I’m sure I’m totally overreacting and that she will be the picture of sweetness and light and will be the kindest soul to walk the earth. Right?
*tap, tap* Is this thing on?
Oh hell, I’m totally screwed. Someone, please hold me.