I've spent this entire pregnancy telling myself we're having a girl. I was afraid to wish for a boy. I didn't want to replace Andrew or do anything to sully our brief memories of him. I had convinced myself a third daughter would be wonderful - we'd go through the princess phase again, have tea parties, and learn about dinosaurs (because I am a feminist, after all!). I imagined pink and tutus and the whole nine yards. And I loved it.
But when I allowed myself to be honest, usually while lying in the dark and praying, I knew that my heart wanted to hold a baby boy. I wanted to give G a brother and David another son. I wanted trucks and dirt and chaos and soccer.
|23 weeks. A perfect smile.|
And at that moment, I didn't care if we were going to be team pink or team blue. I was firmly and solidly in love with whatever God had given us. And I was grateful.
I had almost forgotten our request to know what to expect when something flashed on the screen. I thought I knew what it was. David definitely knew. The tech smiled and assured us there was no doubt about it. This baby is a BOY. A BOY. There were tears... bittersweet, happy, grateful tears.
The next task was to tell the kids they were having a brother. And I'm not one to do things without a little drama. So I made them this:
Their reactions were priceless. But more on that another day.