Our Baby

My belly and me at 17 weeks

Last Monday Billy and I walked out of the ultrasound room laughing and teasing each other about the chaotic years we have ahead of us. Another boy. More wrestling. More potty jokes. A new buddy to join the best friendship of Charlie and Jimmy.

But later that night I couldn't ignore the ache I was feeling. While slicing onions for dinner, eyes watering, boys pushing and fighting at my feet, it suddenly hit me: I'll never have a daughter. I'll never get to use the beautiful girl names I've lovingly whispered to myself for so many years. I'll never get to order those floral birth announcements I've poured over on minted.com. I'll never get to decorate a nursery in the English Garden theme I've perfected in my mind and on pintrest.com, using the Kate Greenway illustrations I've kept in my treasure box for over 5 years. I will never have a daughter.

But in the morning I woke thinking about the baby we saw on the ultrasound screen. At one point he had faced us, tilting his head and throwing a tiny arm over it.  The technician had talked us through the measurements--heart looks great! Kidneys...perfect! Great-looking stomach, great skull proportions. He ended by saying "He's perfect. Couldn't look healthier."  We've heard a variation of those words three times now. We are so lucky. In the light of the morning, the image of his tilted head filled my heart and gave me excited butterflies.

When Billy came in to wake me, he was extra gentle, probably worrying about how I was feeling. He's thrilled at the thought of another boy; he's never hidden his dream of filling our house with little soldiers (even if the soldiers sometimes betray their commanders) but he felt badly for me, I could tell. He said that he'd been thinking about one of the perks of having only boys: there will be no little girls to threaten my title of queen bee. I had to admit he had a point. I love that the little boys fuss over me and admire my dresses and jewelry, and that I'm the only girl in Billy's life.

Then Charlie came in to join us. Since I explained that the baby can hear our voices, he likes to lie his head against my tummy and whisper that the baby has a brother who loves him. When the two of us sit together, he absentmindedly pats my belly or rests his hand on it. That morning Charlie put his head under the covers and whispered into my belly "you are a boy baby. You are our baby, and Jimmy and I are going to play with you."

(Jimmy, for his part, once looked solemnly into my eyes and said "when baby comes out, I not squash him." The effect was less comforting than Jimmy likely intended.)

I don't know. He looks pretty trustworthy to me.

For the past few nights, Billy has put his hands on my belly, waiting patiently to feel the tiny kicks, and looking at me with joy and excitement when he does. 

All this reminds me that this isn't my baby. It's our baby. Billy and I wanted to create a family, and we have. As much as my 26-year-old self  would have hated to hear it, I've discovered there's so much in family life we have no control over--the genders of the kids, their temperaments, the hardships we'll surely face in the years to come. But we have each other and we love each other, and this little baby is part of that.  And we truly are so lucky.

Charlie took this of us. I love that he can work a camera now!

Our baby is lucky to have these two rascals as big brothers.

Of course, he better learn to defend himself pretty quickly.