When I found out I was pregnant, I automatically assumed it was a girl. Not like the normal mothers intuition “this one feels like a girl” type thing….almost as if there were no other options available. No 50/50 chance like everyone usually has. You see I already have a boy. A handsome, intelligent and loving six year old boy.  My son was born of my first marriage. A marriage some outsiders might view as rocky, while myself having gone through it could only refer to it as a full on nightmare. My son was conceived at a time in that marriage that may have been called a “high point.” One of those moments where you hope things will stay the way they are in that moment…peaceful. But of course as most wishful thinkers are, it was devastating when things didn’t stay that way. Almost immediately after my son’s conception, they went from bearable to unbearable. I remember lying up at night crying because while I couldn’t wait to meet my son, I almost wanted to keep him inside me longer because I felt guilty about the family I was bringing him into. When my son was 18 months old, his father and I separated. He moved out and I lived alone with my baby. Just 6 months later – we finalized our divorce. My son’s father still played a part in his life, picking him up for weekends and dinner visits. Slowly, we transitioned to what you would call your typical – once or twice a week and every other weekend co-parenting routine.  Living on my own with him wasn’t easy. I remember nights I would hear a noise and pace around the house back and forth all night like a soldier, because it was my job and only my job to protect him now, if I couldn’t do it, who else would? The same goes for the bills. With only one household income, I decided to leave my safe, comfortable less stressful position I had kept while still married to my husband. I worked and interviewed my butt off to land a higher paying position with an uncapped commission and bonus potential, driven everyday by what became my mantra “it was only me now.”  And with blood, sweat and tears – I was actually successful at it. We made it work. I paid the bills, protected the house, cared for my son. I learned to ask for help – like bringing boxes into the attic or handyman stuff around the house. Through it my son and I built such a bond. We were both growing and learning along side eachother. We were partners. I protected him and I knew at times that he was really protecting me.

Our stint as a dynamic duo didn’t last long however. I was blessed to meet an amazing man and fall in love, and luckily my son fell in love too. The beautiful courtship between the three of us lasted a few short years, and in 2014 we made it official. Which pretty much brings me to just a few months ago, when we found out we were expecting a baby. It was such an exciting moment. Especially for someone who had to make peace years ago with the fact that breaking off her marriage could mean the end of having children. I had faced the facts that there was a real chance my son might be my only. I had made peace with it, but deep down always wanted more, for myself and for him. I had visions of having a baby girl. A little pink bundle that would be nothing like my son, would bear no threat or boast no competition with him, no one would compare them, and he would look at her as completely separate from himself; after all to a six year old boy, girls are innately foreign by nature! This comforted me I think; made me feel like I had some modicum of control. But sure enough God had a plan of his own, and it happened to be quite different than mine. I stared down at the paper the ultrasound technician had given to us….reading B.O.Y. over and over and over again. It felt like my heart was ripped from chest. How could that be? I was so sure that it would be a girl. I was so sure that I wouldn’t have to worry about any of the things that I immediately began worrying about at that very moment. Would my son compare himself to his brother, would anyone else compare them? Would he wonder why he has to leave the house every other weekend to go to his father’s house, but his brothers’ father lives with him? Would he be sad on holidays knowing his baby brother spends every Christmas morning at home, whereas he (by some totally bogus court ordered doctrine) says that can only happen for him on even numbered years! My fears mounted, my worries doubled then tripled. Maybe all of these things would have or could have happened even if it had been a girl, but I suppose I felt like I was playing the odds and they seemed to be in my favor had it been team pink and not blue.

Had I not felt guilty enough already, I then started feeling down right awful inside that this little tiny sweet potato sized baby I had been growing in my stomach had a mother who was sobbing uncontrollably that he would be coming out with the wrong set of genitals! I felt like I was failing both my boys in a matter of minutes, and it was a pain that was too much to bear.  Not to mention the horrible look I saw on my husband’s face, who clearly thought I was insane, and didn’t understand any of what I was feeling. He just apologized to me, as if he had let me down – which made me feel 100 times worse.

Let me say this, I loved having a little boy from the second my son was born. I have loved the experience of raising a little boy so far in the first six years of his life. He is incredible. I never thought of “wanting” a girl – because who really does that, right? I mean who says “I want a girl, or I want a boy” – the right thing to do is say, I want a healthy baby, I’m lucky and blessed to be having a child and I’ll be thankful for whatever God gives me. And I do feel that way. I count my blessings everyday that I was able to get pregnant and carry this baby. I couldn’t feel more blessed. I think I just thought I could control the situation and save my son from whatever pain I thought he might feel from having a mini version of himself running around the house that will inevitably have a very different early childhood than my son had. While my son had to be carted from house to house on weekends, split holidays and not enjoy both his parents being there at bedtime and every morning when he woke up, this baby will. While my son still has to look to two different places on the edge of the soccer field to find both his parents or have to skip playdates with friends because he’s obligated by some arbitrary schedule that was put in place by this thing we call joint custody and co-parenting – this baby wont have to do that.  I have tried since my son was born to shield him from feeling any different than any other child. I have tried to make his life stable, make him feel comfortable in his schedule and most of all feel so loved in every way possible. I watch him get off the school bus every Tuesday, we race off to karate, he gets changed in the car all while wolfing down a snack. He manages to bow onto the karate mat just in time, he leaves there, we race back home, he jumps in the shower, and we finish just in time for his Dad to pull up. I hand him his folder of homework, grab him close for a hug and kiss, and before I know it he races off down the driveway like a total champ. I watch him, as if he’s in slow motion all the way down the steps and around to the side of his Dad’s truck, sometimes if I’m really lucky, he’ll look back and wave again with a little grin. It’s in those moments that I can see that it is truly normal for him. He doesn’t think twice about doing it, he’s been doing it since he was a baby.  It’s in those moments that I have to reflect on how adjusted he is, and take some ownership of the fact that maybe it’s still just not normal with me.

When I studied psychology in college, I remember the particular early childhood psychology studies that would constantly reinforce just how resilient young children are. They adjust, they bounce back, they adapt, and they thrive. If only us older people were the same way.  Over the last few weeks, I’ve worked on adjusting to the thought of being a mom with two boys. Adjusting to the reality of not being able to change the past, but to make the best of what’s being given to me now – a second chance. When my son was a baby, I packed tubs and tubs of storage bins filled with his baby clothes. Over the years, I would just stare at them, often remembering some happy memories, while sometimes remembering the not so happy ones. I wondered if I would ever get to pull them out again. It will be my mission to open the bins, to pull out every onesie and every bath towel and every blankie. Who knows if their even in style or even still wearable for that matter – six years later. But I’ll open them up, pull them out, wash them up and give them my love. And with every once of TLC I give them, I’ll work on washing away the bad, and reviving the good. Washing away the painful memories that accompanied that time in our life, and giving ourselves a chance to look to the good, and breathe life into what was once buried away along with a lot of other painful remnants. I picture a day where my well adjusted son, waves goodbye to his “hopefully as well adjusted” mother as he runs off to his fathers house for dinner on a Tuesday, only to turn around and wave once more to his little brother who will be awaiting his return. That will be a perfect day.