(do not) think pink

About a month ago, I went to my doctor for a check-up. He squirted my belly, started poking around with his pointy ultrasound probe, and asked me, “Have we said anything about the sex?” I was alone (but I’m always alone) and I panicked a little. “Don’t tell me!” I shouted, but of course, I couldn’t drop it there.

“Did you see something?” I asked.

“I supect something,” he said.

“If you saw something, it must be a boy,” I said. And at that moment, I was sure it was a boy, despite the doctor’s delayed but diplomatic response.

“Oh no,” said Steph, when I told him later, ever the supportive friend. Everybody wanted a girl.

I decided to wait two weeks, til after Easter, when a more advanced ultrasound would show the sex for sure (and all the other organs, which were of much more interest to the doctors). I bought that time -- to think about boys, and disappointments, and names.

And it’s a girl. Healthy, long-legged, strong-willed. A sound sleeper. I want her dressed in white.

When I went back to my regular doctor, to proudly confirm what he already knew, he (uncannily) confirmed something that I already knew, something I had even written, in a declaratory email or two.

“Deep down,” he said, “everybody wants a girl.”