Think Pink.

It took about three hours after the it's a girl revelation for consumerism to take hold.

Jason had to leave for work right when we got home from the doctor, leaving me alone to soak in the huge news. A girl. Someone I can actually teach with purpose. I would have been happy with a boy, but I wouldn't have known what to do with a boy. With a girl, I can actually share my personal love of Gloria Steinem, Maureen Dowd, feminism, heels and Sex and the City reruns. I can try to mold her into what the next generation needs--smart, aware women who don't turn their noses up at the fellow members of their sex, whether they're decked out in pink or sporting hairy armpits.

But above all that--it's someone I can SHOP FOR.

I'm not a fan of the color pink, and I've said before with way too much authority that if I ever have a girl I wouldn't deck her out in pink everything just because her lack of a Y chromosome, but ohmygod I didn't know how adorably tiny and amazing those little girl clothes are. It started with some innocent browsing. I needed (and need) to do some serious research, because as it turns out, I really don't know what a newborn wears. After almost a week of googling and soul-searching and shopping and I still don't have a definitive answer.

So I browsed all the Big names, the ones even a child-neophyte has heard of. And The Children's Place was having a mondo sale, and before I knew it I'd spent $50 and my daughter had two hats, ten onesies, and three dresses to start her soon-to-be bursting at the seams wardrobe. They're all pink. They're all gag-inducingly girly. But they were cheap, and just looking at the confirmation e-mail in my inbox makes my hormonally-enthused self want to bawl. I'm having a girl.

The next day one of my oldest friends and I stopped by Gymboree after lunch. She'd bought a few outfits for her ex-boyfriend's daughter, and they'd broken up before she'd given them to her, so she needed to exchange them. (Thank you, friend's ex-boyfriend, for turning out to be such a psycho so my daughter could benefit.) She graciously picked out two mind-numbingly pink newborn sweatshirts and some teeny tiny little pink and white booties and--what else?--some more pink onesies.

(While waiting in line, this friend loudly asked me, while looking at a display of baby underwear, if I should buy the baby some underwear. Three months ago and I would have been like well, shit, add that to the list of things I need. I've come FAR ENOUGH to know better than that. Ten points for me. And the cashier audibly chuckled at our conversation.)

Now, my lovely little fetus has taken over a third of her daddy's clothes rack. We live in a tiny apartment, and his "closet" consists of a long bar hanging in our bathroom. Now, when I open the bathroom door I'm barraged with PINK. My formerly least-favorite color is taking over my life.

Did I mentioned we picked out a name? Adelyn Belle. It almost sounds pink. I love it.

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My first baby item.

Today, I got my first baby thing. The shopaholic that I am, I'm almost surprised I haven't bought anything yet, just because I, you know, can. But it feels preemptive and like it would jinx everything, so I've withstood.

I met my soon-to-be mother in law and my fiance's 13 year old cousin in downtown Nashville for lunch.

I found them at a store a couple doors down, called Estelle's. It was one of those places that made my nose itch the second I walked inside, with cats meandering around and dust-ridden antiques lining the walls.

I'd only been in the store two minutes before the woman behind the counter--in her mid-60s and the quintessential antique store owner--informed me that Taylor Swift came by the other day, and I had to feign being impressed at the presence of a country music star who I wouldn't even know existed if I didn't work at a Nashville news station.

Eight years later (seriously, I can't believe I didn't give birth in the story listening to this lady talk) after she'd rung my mother in law up for the three pieces of jewelry she'd found, she started asking questions about me and the 13 year old cousin.

"These your girls?" she asked, genuinely interested in that 60-year-old-antique-store-owner kind of way.

"This one's my niece," MIL responded, gesturing at the girl who's nearly a foot taller than me and looks every bit more 18-years-old than I do.

"And this one is my son's fiance, the one who's pregnant with my grandchild."

They'd obviously been talking before my arrival.

After that, all Hell broke loose. I was hugged and kissed on the cheek by this old woman more than I've even hugged and kissed my own grandma. She INSISTED on giving me a present and left to rummage through the back of the story for her baby stash.

She came back with a memory book, adorned with little yellow ducks and aptly entitled "My Little Ducky Book."

This is the kind of thing I might point and laugh at, telling whomever I'm with that this is exactly the kind of thing I do not want just because I'm having a baby.

Babies don't care if their shirts and blankets and wall-hangings have ducks on them.

I, however, am not a fan of ducks. And I do care.

But you don't come across such kindhearted people like this woman every day, even in places like Nashville that house many more kindhearted people than most.

I feigned excitement even better about that book than I did about Taylor Swift, and I hugged her back. I promised we'd return when we found out the sex of the baby, and after we'd had it, and after it entered preschool and high school and college and then, even, when my baby had its own baby, just so she could gift us with more ducky-stuff.

The whole ordeal was so sweet and sincere that I'm sitting here looking at this dusty vintage book, and it doesn't make me want to gag. Ducks and all. And that's saying a lot, because I just threw up every bit of my lunch.

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