Disclaimer: This is a story about something deeply personal, and it’s hard for me to share this. So if you care to read further, please respect my feelings. I will not tolerate rude or hateful comments and they will be deleted.
About a month ago, I sat on the couch, silently crying, as I looked at my daughter quietly playing with her baby doll. Feeding her, patting her back, talking sweetly to her in that little babble that only I can understand. I love this; the quiet, thoughtful play that she does so well. It’s so calming and peaceful to me. Granted, she’s not always like this, but when she is, I truly cherish it. It’s something I can handle, mentally and physically.
And yet I cried. I cried because I’m pregnant again and this time, I’m having a boy. And I continued to cry because I was ashamed of crying over it, especially because the day before at the doctor’s office, my main concern was the overall health of my child, as I had just gotten over a recent miscarriage a few months earlier. How could my priorities change so much in less than 24 hours, I wondered? How could I be so…selfish? But still, I just couldn’t seem to keep it together that afternoon on the couch.
My feelings were two-fold. On one hand, I’ve always wanted one of each, but was hoping this next kiddo would be a girl so E could have a sister. I love my bro to the moon and back, but I always wished I had a sister in addition to him. My mom had a miscarriage when I was about 10, and I always felt like it was going to be a girl. So, maybe there’s always been a void in me. Another (much smaller) part of me worried that a boy will be so much energy. I envisioned walking into my house only to see him standing among broken furniture, crumbling walls and a small fire. So I was a bit hormonal. Okay, a lot hormonal.
The past month has been full of some serious soul-searching and a lot of prayer (and maybe a good old fashioned pep talk or two from my mother). Gender disappointment brings about one of two reactions from others. Either “I know how you feel.” or “How could you feel that way?”. Luckily, I have enough self-confidence to care less about what others think, and more about what’s actually going on inside my heart. I’ve learned that I just needed time to deal internally with the news and sort it out in my hormonal, pregnant, toddler mom brain. Time. That’s it. It’s through the sheer passing of time that I’ve realized I wasn’t sad about having a son — I was sad for the daughter I had expected to have who wasn’t to be. I equate it to a toddler tantrum over not getting what they want. Eventually, they get over it, and they are back to loving you unconditionally, like nothing ever happened. Now that I’ve acknowledged that sadness for what it is, I feel a lot better. I’m happy to say that I’m truly at peace with God’s gift to me, and that I’m so excited to meet my son in less than five short months. I’m even kinda getting excited about boy clothes. And I look forward to experiencing that special mother-son love that all my BoyMom friends speak of. My shame is gone, and I’ve come to accept my initial emotions for what they were – just emotions. Right or wrong, I won’t deny or be ashamed of them. The beauty of it all is that our feelings and emotions aren’t permanent, and that God has the ability to change our hearts.
Will I love my son any less because I previously dreamed of him being a girl? Definitely not. Just like his big sister, I’ll look at him face to face on the day of his birth and know that he’s exactly what I needed, without knowing that I needed it.