Friday, January 8, 2010

You get what you get and you don't have a fit.

On June 9, 2006, I found out that I was pregnant with my 4th child.

As with my other three pregnancies, it was a total surprise, but a very welcome one.

I had three little boys at the time that I adored, and still do. Naturally, when people found out I was pregnant AGAIN, they would offer congratulations, and then they would say the statement that I abhorred with ever fiber of my being. "OOH! I hope you get your girl this time!" Outwardly, I would always smile politely and nod, but internally I would groan and roll my eyes.

I know that people meant well, but I detested when they would say this to me. In fact, after I had two boys, and I found out that my third pregnancy was another boy, (George) people would smile, tilt their head, pity me and say something like, "Awww...well you're gonna have your hands full with all those boys!" or "Oh! You gotta keep trying for that girl!"

As if.

As if I, or Bill, or anyone could control these things. As if I could "try" for a girl. As if I just had to have a girl. As if my life would be incomplete without one. As if I needed anyone's pity. Pregnancy is the ultimate crapshoot, and as they say in preschool, "You get what you get and you don't have a fit."

I just assumed all along that my 4th baby would be another boy, and I was perfectly happy with that. Sure I would have loved to have a daughter, but I was okay with the thought of another son too. The dynamic of four boys around here would be loud and crazy and more of the same, but wonderfully fun. Moms of boys do not want your pity. Save it for someone else. In other words, thank you, but SHUT IT. Boys are cool.

Bill and I thought about naming this fourth baby of ours Harold or Fred. Seriously. Sure we entertained some girl names, but I decided that that would be futile since this baby wasn't going to be a girl. I had heard a statistic once that if your first two children are the same sex, then the chances of you having a child of a different gender are slim to none. But don't quote me on that. Besides, I am the second-oldest of SIX girls and ZERO POINT ZERO boys, so see the trend here? This fourth baby of mine was a boy. I was sure of it.

We got an ultrasound on October 4, 2006. (Don't ask me why I remember all these dates. They are really irrevelant. I'm just trying to show off my steel-trap memory for totally insignificant dates. Sometimes I'll mess with Bill's head and be all, "Remember what today is?" when it's really just the 14th anniversary of the first time we shared a Papa John's pizza together. What? You don't celebrate that day? Just me?) We brought the boys with us to the ultrasound, who basically cheered, "Boy! Boy! Boy!" the whole time. As the ultrasound technician squirted the cool gel on my belly and rolled the wand over my stomach, he checked out all the vitals. Then came the exciting moment that we were all waiting for: our confirmation that this baby was a boy. After all, I had my eye on the cutest blue and green plaid crib set from PBKids and I was all set to order it. I just needed the all-clear signal.

"Do you want to know the sex of the baby?" the technician asked.

(UM, HELLS YEAH.) "Yes! We definitely do!" I responded, fervently hoping this baby was opening his legs and cooperating.

"Okay, it's a girl!" the technician said confidently.

Whaaaa....???

Let me tell you, if I wasn't already lying down, my knees would have buckled. To say I was stunned was an understatement. A girl? Are you sure there was no stem on that apple? Didn't you get the memo Mr. Ultrasound Technician? Bill and I don't make girls. We only make boys. With boy parts. Boy junk if you will. Not girls. And if you're fooling me with this information someone is going to get hurt.

The boys immediately started whining and saying things like, "OH MAN! A SISTER! WE DON'T WANT A SISTER!"

I know. My boys' excitement over the impending arrival of their sister is truly heartwarming, isn't it?

As the news sank in to my stunned brain, I looked at Bill, who was still all, "Whaaa....whooo....where....whaaa....GIRL....whaaa....???" and I started crying. Although I didn't need a girl, although I didn't have to have a girl, although I was perfectly content with being the mother of boys, HOLY HOT DAYUM, I was having a GIRL!

A girl.

And although I love to recount the moment when my boys found out that their brother would instead be a sister, I can proudly say that they no longer wish for her to be a boy. In fact, they have asked me a few times over the past three years if I am ever going to have another girl, "Because girls are a lot more fun," than they originally thought.

Um. Duh. Girls rule.

So what is my point to this?

My point to this entry is this. Boys are fun to raise and live with, but shopping for their clothing and accessories is just...eh. Especially when they are older, the only thing boys want to wear is track pants and a short-sleeved t-shirt EVERY day of their lives. But wait! If you are lucky, they might let you buy them a new pack of white socks every so often. But you better buy the right ones, because HOLY HECK, if you buy the wrong socks, they will be scrumply or itchy or bunchy and then it's all over. The wrong socks can make or break a morning.

So check this out you guys. Here it is, a snowy day, and all of 19 degrees outside, and I'm dying to show you what I bought my Annabel the other day at the store.

Here it is.



Yes, it is a pink bathing suit with a tutu around the middle. A FREAKIN' TUTU.

Insert high-pitched girly squeal here.

Annabel does not need this bathing for oh...say...about 5 more months. But I couldn't resist. Because it's pink! And it's a tutu! That she can swim in!

And here's the best part. I got it at Target for a mere $9.99. Once again, Tar-jhay is where it's at, people.

Can you even get over this cuteness?

Of course, Annabel loves this bathing suit, because she loves pink. And she probably loves pink because I've shoved this color and all variations of it down her little throat since the moment she donned her very first outfit.

Because it's just so purty.

But even though Annabel loves dresses and Disney Princesses and baby dolls, she is tough and can hang with boys like the best of them. She is not a princess. I literally cringe when people call their daughters "princesses". We are not the royal family, and I am not raising a spoiled diva who will grow up thinking she is a monarch or the heir to this family's throne.

The only thrones in this house and are white and porcelain, and you can find one of them down the hall and to the right.

Girls. Boys. Whatever you have, enjoy the adventure.

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