Is it a boy or girl?
Today it seems old school for parents-to-be to wait all those months until their baby is born just to discover the gender of the little monster, I mean youngster. Well I had one of each, back in the olden days of 1997 and 1999. But I knew. I didn't need an ultrasound to tell me who was in there. Baby One was a boy, guaranteed. I was up for doing something. All the time. Anytime. I played tennis in my ninth month, rarely dropping the ball. And if I did, I'd just roll it up my leg with the racket to save me from bending over which I couldn't do to save my life. And talk about frisky. When they say that men basically have a one-track mind, uh, I get it now. It was difficult to stay focused. I'd be at work, trying to write, or get dialling the number for my next phone interview. My mind would drift back to the default. Darned testosterone! But I miss the steady stream of energy my tiny growing baby boy gave his momma. One thing threw me off, though. Early on I banned bacon from the house. Couldn't stomach the smell of it. So in the end, the day I became a mom, I must admit, there was still that element of surprise.
Baby Two was a girl, I knew it. But how? One word … comfort. Even once she could talk, the house knew it was her bedtime when she called out, "I want mommy comforts!". This pregnancy was entirely different than the first. I didn't feel like doing something sporty after breakfast, lunch or dinner, which was, of course, often comfort food. How 'bout something cozy like watching a movie under a blanket on the reclining sofa with snacks and a warm drink on the side table. If there was a onesy for pregnant women, I'd have ordered one for each day of the week. I'd have a special drive-thru onesy for when I was craving a KFC chicken breast sandwich. Well I didn't need to wear street clothes because there was no way I was going into a fast food restaurant to sit on a cold, hard plastic chair. That would interrupt the coziness that I enjoyed from the comfort of my family van's bucket seat. I truly believe drive-thru's were designed for women carrying baby girls. When I was pregnant with my son, people stopped me on the street to tell me the gender of my baby. "Dear, you're carrying high. You're having a boy." And, "from behind I couldn't even tell you were pregnant. But from here, holy crap, you certainly are!" So later in my second pregnancy I often checked the mirror. Am I carrying low? Am I as wide as a cow expecting twins? I'd throw my hands in the air and proceed to sprinkle extra bacon and mozzarella on the mac and cheese casserole then slide it into the oven. Ding! Time to take the blankie out of the dryer. Ahhhhhhh.
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