I can’t remember exactly when I decided I wanted a little boy, but I think it was shortly after meeting my husband and imagining a little version of him. He has always been very heavily into sport, especially rugby, and I loved the idea of watching him take a little boy by the hand and lead him off to mini rugby on a Sunday morning. I liked the idea of muddy dog walks, lazy weekend afternoons watching sport with pizza, and dropping him off at football practice after school. So I can’t remember the day, the month, or the year when I started dreaming about him, but I know he was in my mind for years before I did that pregnancy test.
As soon as I found out I was expecting a baby, I started to dream even more about this little boy. I knew there was a 50% chance I would be buying pink – but as the weeks went on, instinct told me that it would be blue. I could see his face (completely different to his actual face, I will add) and I was drawn to the blue outfits whenever I allowed myself a little browse in the shops.
At my 18 week appointment, my doctor threw me by asking if we wanted to find out the sex. I hadn’t expected to be asked until the 20 week scan two weeks later. We looked at each other for a moment, before deciding that yes, we wanted to know.
I could feel my heart trying to leap out of my chest as she started to look with the scanning equipment. Names we had been discussing flashed through my head – as in just a few moments, I would be able to discount one set completely. But alas, my hopes were dashed when she paused and told us that she couldn’t be 100% sure as the baby was crossing its legs (stubborn from the beginning). But after looking again, she could she could take a very good guess that it was a boy, but couldn’t confirm it. My heart leaped, but I had to wait two weeks until it would be confirmed either way at the 20-week scan.
I tried not to get too excited – and two weeks later, as I lay on the bed and watched the outline of my wriggling baby pop up on the screen, I waited for confirmation, expecting a drumroll, before a big, emotional announcement. Hilariously, the sonographer confirmed it with: ‘There is the penis’. Not the way I was expecting to be told, but it has made us laugh ever since.
I went shopping after that and allowed myself to start a little blue wardrobe. I knew that I wanted more than one child and that it may be a total waste of money, but I couldn’t resist the soft powder blue blankets, the sleepsuits with blue elephants scattered across them, and the navy star-print swaddle wraps.
After that, of course, I didn’t think much more about it. I had my boy and that was wonderful. But I have to admit, that having given birth to that baby on a sunny April afternoon, I suddenly understand that gender doesn’t matter. I know I would have loved that baby with as much ferocity whether it had been a boy, a girl, or in fact an alien. And whilst my dreams for that child’s future would have to be adjusted a little, we would have been just as happy as we are now. I know that for a fact.
With that knowledge, the second time round just didn’t really matter. I was happy to have a little boy (I almost couldn’t bear the thought of those little blue outfits not getting a second outing), but I was equally happy for a sister to join us too. We got our second boy and were delighted – and I can very confidently tell you that if we went on to have a third, I would be equally happy with my third little man or our first little girl – so much so, that I don’t know if I’d even bother to find out the gender next time. It just wouldn’t matter.
So gender is a funny thing. You think it matters so much when you are first pregnant – but when that screaming baby is handed to you, it doesn’t matter a jot. I am a mummy of boys and very, very proud to be (so much so that I started a blog all about it!) – but I know I would be just as happy as a mummy of girls. Life has a funny way of working itself out just the way it should. And how perfect is that.