About a Boy
“It’s a boy!” she exclaimed. Though not in an overly zealous, cheerleader doctor kind of way, because I just don’t pick doctors like that.
“Yep, it’s a boy,” she repeated.
An hour later, she told me the stunned look on my face was what caused her double-take. “You had me convinced I was wrong, so I had to look again.”
Well, I was convinced she was wrong, too.
Despite the Chinese gender predictor test, the telltale pregnancy symptoms, and the swinging needle and thread that all indicated “big old boy” while I was expecting, something in the back of my head said girl, girl, girl. You two make girls. I saved all the pink I could find from Little D — crib sheets, onesies, mini pink Converse — everything was cleaned and folded and stacked away for numero deux’s impending, and inevitably female, arrival. I didn’t know why we had chosen not to find out the gender, I knew it anyway.
Apparently the Chinese are on to something.
A boy he was. Is. And now, two months later, darling husband and I still manage to marvel at the fact. I don’t know how to wipe a boy. I don’t know how to transform a Transformer with a boy. I don’t know how to cut hair in the kitchen for a boy. Frankly, from what I have seen of my friends adorable little male offspring, I am slightly afraid of boys.
But I do know how to shop. And this morning, I found this online at Fawn & Forest.
And suddenly, just like that, I am all about a boy.