It’s a boy! Last week Gibby and I confirmed that the little person growing inside of me has a penis!
Indulge me as I oooh and ahhh over all the possibilities of the kind of wonderfulness this kid is going be! Big brown eyes and chocolate brown skin; undeniably handsome! Brilliant, of course. He’ll be funny like Gibby (Gibby made me say that. I personally think he’ll be funny like me.) And he’ll be so well behaved, clean, healthy, and the most agreeable child that anyone could possibly wish for.
Who am I kidding? This is a "Kristina and Gibby" production. He’ll be hyperactive, a rule-breaker, and let's face it, probably a bit of a smart ass. AND I CAN’T WAIT!
I am over the moon at the idea of having a little boy running around but to be honest, I didn’t have a preference of whether it was a boy or a girl. I didn’t want to get my heart set on one or the other. Don’t you think that’s a lot of pressure to put on your baby? Think about it. Let’s say I had my heart set on a girl and the doctor told me it was a boy? I didn’t want my baby to think I was already setting him up to disappoint me.
Mom: “I hope you’re a girl! I hope you’re a girl! I hope you’re a girl!”
Fetus: “Sorry mom, I’m a boy.”
Mom: “(Sigh) That’s okay, too, I guess.”
I didn’t want to start off my relationship with my new baby thinking he’d already disappointed me. It’s probably just my own childhood guilt and acceptance issues (which I fully intend on discussing with my therapist) but, just in case, I didn’t want to start off on the wrong foot with Baby Boy Bean. I want him always to know how proud I am of him.
So when the doctor said, “It’s a boy!,” I hip-hip hoorayed like I’d just won the lottery! I imagined him in the womb high-fiving himself and smiling at the fact he’d just made his momma so proud — his first victory as my child!