Tiny Dancer.

I knew I wanted a girl, deep down, even before I definitively knew that I wanted a child. After we found out Adelyn's sex ohsolong ago, it took a few days for the news to really sink in, that there was a tiny me inside of my own body, that I was soon going to be responsible for the upbringing of one of my own. Like I said before I don't know what I would do with a boy. I've heard boys are "easier," in the sense that they're less fussy in the beginning and less complicated later on. But I'll take that complication in a heart beat in exchange for the beautiful intricacy of the life in front of me.

I've also said before that I didn't really love the idea of decking out a baby in pink just because, especially if, like me, it's your least favorite color. But having a girl means you get to buy ridiculous stuff like ballerina-swimsuits, like the one above my sister got for Adelyn.

(She spit up all over the tutu ten seconds after this picture was taken.)

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Baby hair bands and the female challenge.

Someone brought my attention to this today:


http://www.babybangshairband.com/

And it brought up a lot of thoughts on what's ahead for me. I'm having a girl. I wanted a girl. Everyone told me that boys are easier. But I don't want easy.

Of course girls are harder. You did that to us, world. You tell us things like "have a perfect body," and "fulfill your biological destiny and have children," and "don't get fat," and "don't be selfish and care about getting fat when you're pregnant," and "don't forget to be the perfect mother," and "even if you're a baby, you better be rocking some awesome hair," and then you force women to tell their pregnant counterparts in hushed tones that boys are just the easier way to go.

You made it this way.

I've always been a girls' girl. I connect with the female spirit infinitely better than I ever have with those gross and dirty boys. I've never understood the boys' girls--the ones who walk the tightrope perfectly between tomboy and flirt, who complain about how catty the members of their own sex are, who claim the only women they've ever known have been nothing but manipulative man stealers. I grew up thinking boys were snickering, name-calling, self-esteem ruining meanies. Girls were my allies.

Trust me, boys' girls. That's just not it. I've met those girls, and I've hated them, too. I know I'm lucky that I've had a close knit group of girl friends that are smart and intelligent and rarely catty and always compassionate. I guess I'm lucky that I have a mom and a sister whose careers and minds and collective ballsiness put the entire male population to shame. But I can say without the tiniest bit of hesitiation that I just plain like girls better. Sorry, boys.

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I convinced myself I was having a boy. An hour after I watched the positive sign form on the pregnancy test, I saw him: a little mini Jason. Wild, blonde, sweet but never so much so that he lost his boyishness. Completely foreign.

If having a girl is more of a challenge, then bring it on. At least I can give her some ammunition, some armor, to get her through what's ahead--baby hair bands are just the beginning.

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The big one.

During my last ultrasound I was scolded for not coming in with a full bladder, so I made sure to chug a liter of water and a glass of orange juice this time before dropping trou and feeling the warm X-ray goo poured over my belly.

The ultrasound tech told me afterward that I didn't need a full bladder for this one. But that wouldn't be as fun as using every ounce of my energy to hold pee in while she pressed onto my stomach.

So for half an hour we got to watch our baby kick and squirm, twist and flip, while I tried my damnedest not to pee on myself.

The tech asked at the very end if I had an intuition about the sex. I said boy, because that's what I've said all along.

I was wrong.

Look at her.

She's perfect. Heart, lungs, spine, bones, nose, nuchal fold, arms, legs, fingers, toes. They're all there. And they're all perfect.

I'm too overwhelmed at the moment to write much. We went to breakfast afterward and started listing our myriad expectations for her. So far, we want her to be a drummer, like I always wished I was. A guitarist, like her dad. A dancer, because I wish I hadn't quit all those years ago. A feminist, because, duh, I wouldn't have it any other way. A daddy's girl. Tolerant and open-minded. A reader, since she'll be a Lavery and will have no other choice.

I have no idea who she'll be, but I know she'll be loved beyond measure.

And I'm sorry, daughter, for thinking all this time you were a boy. Really, I only thought so because deep down I wanted you to be a girl. I didn't want to jinx it.

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D-Day Countdown Begins.

I don't think I've been this excited about something since I was seven years old. It was Christmas Eve, and I was sleeping in my big sister's bed (she was NOT down for co-sleeping under any other circumstances), and my parents had just left the room after reading us 'Twas the Night Before Christmas and kissing our foreheads. That was the last Christmas I remember feeling that genuine, palpable nervousness over Santa Claus' imminent arrival. Every year after that it became less magical and more about waking up in the morning to get stuff. My sister and I lay in bed for hours trying to sleep, and even though she was old enough to see past the big Christmas lie she wasn't too old to play along for my benefit. It was perfect.

(And now, at 23 years old, I've obviously been enlightened to the real goings-on of Christmas. Even more, I've become more chained by religious obligation; I've wrestled with the decision of celebrating a holiday a love and that I grew up with even though I'm Jewish. The reality of it sucks out all the magic. That's something I really look forward to with having my own child, the ability to experience, even just vicariously, the magic of the holidays, secular or not.)

It's now Finding-out-the-Sex-Day Eve Eve Eve. On Monday, we go for the big ultrasound. Bright and early at 8 am. I'll be awake at 5. If I can sleep at all that night, because it's days away and I barely can now.

It will also mean that I'm officially halfway there. I just choked on my water a little bit.

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