When I found out I was pregnant with my first baby, I ran straight to the mall. I ended up buying a 0-3 month hot pink polka-dotted bathing suit with an attached tutu (you know, because where else would I want to be right after giving birth than a sandy beach? Pfffff.) and a pair of teeny, tiny, gold sparkly Mary Janes. Her name was Ruby. She was going to be sassy, and strong, and sparkly, and I couldn’t wait to meet her.
Fast forward to Christmas eve –16 weeks pregnant. Matt and I couldn’t possibly wait until the 20 week scan to find out the sex, so we drove 40 minutes and paid $60 for an ultrasound on a freezing cold morning in Cambridge. Some bumper to bumper traffic and a few hormonal meltdowns later, we arrived.
“Can you move a little Miss, I can’t seem to see the important parts.” “Can you stand up? Maybe drink a little and jump up and down. We need to get this little one to move.” “Oh! There is it! Look at that! It’s a boy!” Time stopped. I looked up at the screen. Now, for those of you that worry after the ultrasound that maybe the technician messed up and told you the wrong sex, you have never seen a penis on an ultrasound. This was not a maybe-those-are-just-long-lips kinda thing. This was a fucking dick and balls, clear as day, staring me in the face.
If you have ever seen Tyrell Owen in the end zone (yeah. I am that cool.) that is what Matt looked like upon hearing the news. Fist pumps. Jumping. Yelling. And then there was me –pregnant, belly exposed, feeling nauseous, sobbing. Now, I don’t mean like kind of crying but hiding it, I mean losing-my-shit crying. Now, of course this is insane. I have a wonderful healthy baby inside of me. Many women would give anything to be in this position. I get it, of course now I get it. But in that moment, I had instantaneously time traveled to this little boys wedding where he was marrying a crazy, controlling biatch who hated my guts and wanted him to move Alaska. Who the hell was I going to get a pedicure with?! Yeah—I was sobbing uncontrollably about a lost pedicure a few decades away. WHATEVER. I was unglued.
On our way home we stopped at Petco to get my sister-in-law a fish for Christmas (she was the lucky one that got me as her Secret Santa). I was stomping around Petco, bullshit, wiping away tears while I picked out a bowl, some neon orange rocks, a weird plastic fern, and a blue beta fighting fish.
That night we surprised Matt’s family with a picture of the ultrasound at dinner. I wrote, “It’s a Boy” on the frame. Everyone was thrilled. Christmas morning we did the same thing for my family except I wrote “It’s a Fucking Penis!”. My two brothers reacted similarly to Matt. My mom gave me big hug as I cried through a smile saying, “I’m okay, I’m okay.”
Fast forward and now I am living happily ever after with my two little penises. And of course, I wouldn’t have it any other way. I have actually learned that I can have it all. I shop in the girl’s section for pants until the boys are at least 18 months old. Nice, tight little nut huggers. I paint Rex’s nails, and we load glitter into his dump trucks. I put Rocky in little gold moccasins that have almost lead to divorce on a few different occasions.
I do hope to have more kids, so maybe someday I will have a daughter. But I am pretty certain only dicks come out of me, and I think I’m good with that. I will say, even if I give birth in the dead of winter – if it’s a girl we are leaving the hospital and heading straight to an indoor water park, and that chick is gunna rock that pink polka-dotted bathing suit like she owns the joint.
Related: In Defense of the Gender Reveal