Good, Better, Best
In the case of Steelers vs. Redskins: The Steelers emerged victorious.
In the case of Obama vs. McCain: Obama emerged victorious.
In the case of Chick vs. Dick?
I’d like you to meet my daughter.
Internet, I was SO SURE the baby was a boy. I don’t know why; it might have been a bit of wishful thinking on my part. As bad and weird as I feel admitting this, I kind of wanted a boy. Honestly, girls scare me. I think growing up is a little tougher for girls – body issues, BIG ASS body changes during puberty – I don’ t know, it overwhelmed me. Plus, I was afraid having a daughter would mean I was doomed to drive the poor thing crazy. That would, after all, be my job as her mother.
As the ultrasound technician (who was awesome, by the way) ran the wand over my belly, she rested on what I easily recognized as an image of a decidedly junk-free little crotch. “Now, you’re sure you want to know the sex, right?” she said. We nodded. “You’re having a little girl!”
I started crying. Brad started crying. I said something like, “Oh my God, I thought it was a boy!” which, combined with my insane sobbing, prompted the ultrasound tech to say with a laugh, “Are you OK with a girl?”
Internet, I’m a little more than OK with a girl.
The rest of the ultrasound was perfect. All the necessary bones and organs were present and accounted for, and we watched a perfectly-chambered heart beat with little flutters on the screen. My little Chick opened and closed her fist, stretched her legs, and somersaulted like a damn Romanian gymnast. I don’t think I blinked the entire time.
Of course, that absolutely perfect boy name I’ve had picked out since before I got pregnant? Set aside, for now. (For now? FOR NOW?! Did I just say “for now?” Holy fuck.) We started to throw around some girl names last night, and as of today we have two on our short list of favorites. I’m afraid the name won’t be revealed to you all until the next time I get to see those little feet: April 5. But I can tell you this: never in my wildest dreams have I ever imagined I’d deserve something as perfect as her. And I’m quite sure I don’t deserve her, but I’ll be damned if I don’t do my best to try.
Just promise you won’t make me listen to Hannah Montana. Amen.
Entry filed under: Gobble-gobble.