So I had my 20 week sonogram on Tuesday. I spent the night before bouncing off the walls and talking too much, and the day-of feeling like I was going to throw up. The sono wasn’t just about finding out the sex, it was about whether Tater was growing correctly, had all the right parts, had ANY parts.
This was especially nerve-wracking because I hadn’t felt Tater move yet and hadn’t heard a heartbeat in four weeks. All kinds of horrid thoughts were swirling around and it was making me a bit loony. Loonier than usual. I was two steps away from pulling a Jessie Spano; “I’m so excited! I’m so excited! I’m so…SCARED.” (If you did not get that reference, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. You are very young and you are making me feel very old.)
My dad actually talked me down from the ledge a bit, which is strange because he’s usually not one for words of wisdom. He did say that “if it has three lungs, you just deal with it,” or something along those lines, so he wasn’t EXACTLY Dr. Phil but the effort was appreciated.
It wasn’t until about ten minutes before that I hit a calm-my old friend theatre zen. When I was acting, I’d get crazy nervous the day of the show until right before my entrance when my body would go, “Well. Ain’t sh*t we can do now, whatever’s gonna happen is gonna happen. Let’s do this damn thing.” I missed you, theatre zen. You kept me from pooping my pants on stage lots of times. (Don’t worry, that reference is keeping in line with my baby mama promises.)
Anyway, Jethro and I headed to the OB and it was there that I made him finalize our bet. I’d been insisting that we bet on Tater’s sex because, as we all know, I knew Tater is a girl. He didn’t want to bet anything monetary, but I am not above wagering on my child. So we ended up betting an X-Box game for him and jewelry for me. Because Mama needs shiny things.
Except…Mama ain’t gettin’ sh*t.
Yup. My precious girl baby has a wee willie winkie.
I KNOW. I WAS SO SURE TOO!!!
…dammit.
Oh, I’m not sad about having a boy, I’ve actually always wanted a boy. Especially after working at a dance studio. Ever spend time a in room full of excited nine year old girls hopped up on cupcakes? It’s like standing in a barrel of baby spider monkeys with broken tails. Makes you want to set your hair on fire, just to shock them into silence…except they wouldn’t be quiet, even then. THEY ARE NEVER QUIET.
It’s just I really hate being wrong.
It didn’t help that when Jethro saw, he fist-pumped and was all, “STRONG LIKE BULL!”
Dammit.
Actually, “Dammit!” is what I yelled when I found out Tater was a boy because, again, I hate being wrong. Two seconds later, the sono tech said, “Oh! Look! He’s flipping us off!!”
Negative four months old and already needs a time-out.
So, yeah. A boy! And that exclamation point is not ironic; once I had a half hour to get used to the pronoun change, I got SUPER excited. STILL not pumped about being wrong (DAMMIT) but snuggly cuddly little boys? I am all over that.
And honestly, the only dream I’ve lost is buying a big poofy dress so I can play real live dress-up with my kid before she’s old enough to complain about it. I mean, I COULD do that with my little boy, but I’m not that progressive with my gender ideals yet. AND I live in Texas. We have jerks that will let a 2 year old have a firearm but will call CPS if I put my son in a pageant dress.
But other than yards of overly expensive tulle dripping with AB crystals (SPARKLE, BABY!) and other assorted frilly things, Tater is still my Tater. The kid was always destined to run around nekkid on the family farm and pee in the yard, boy or girl, because that’s what kids who grow up in the country do. There will still be sing-a-longs to show tunes, cookie baking and going exploring and poking weird things with sticks, because that’s what I do. And with Jethro for a father, fishing, being scared of hot things and shooting cow patties was always in the cards, no matter the sex. (Apparently you only shoot the dry ones. You hit a wet one and you gotta change your shirt. See what kind of things you learn when you read my blog? I’m like friggin’ Mr. Wizard up in here! YOU’RE WELCOME.)
Anyway, Tater’s lack of a bajingo changes nothing. And actually, I’m finding silver linings. Like the fact that everyone who has a son tells me how much little boys LOVE their mamas. (YES! ALL THE CUDDLES WILL BE MINE!!) And I don’t have to have that “you ALWAYS wipe front to back,” conversation on diaper changes with Jethro. (I tried once. It did not go well.) And if he’s straight, when it comes to dating, I get to be the intimidating parent! Now I just gotta learn to polish a rifle to scare those hussies off…
So lay it on me, moppets. Those of you who had brothers, do they really smell THAT bad when they hit ten? Moms of little boys, how often does the getting peed on ACTUALLY occur? Everyone in general, do you think I can still sneak him in as a girl in a pageant if I just make sure to change his diaper in private? (WHAT? I’m just askin’….)
