Getting the Girl
When I found out I was pregnant—which came as a huge surprise to everyone involved, most of all my own uterus, having grown accustomed to living alone—I wasn't even sure I wanted any kids, but I knew that I didn't want kids with penises.
It's not that I dislike boys, I married one. And I did manage to get pregnant because I'm cool with penises in general. I just don't get boys; I don't know their motivations. I can't figure out why most of the boys I know between the ages of fetus and five seem hell-bent on breaking things just to watch them shatter and snap. I was worried that I wouldn't have the experience to draw from in raising a male child. I was intimidated by the thought of having to clean poop out from under tiny, squishy testicles.
I wanted a girl and I didn't feel guilty about it. I had my heart so set on a girl that the only reason I refused to learn the sex at ultrasound was my fear of spending four months disappointed at carrying a boy; a good friend broke down bawling while showing her ultrasound video to her in-laws, right at the point where the technician pointed out the offending genitalia. (She has two boys now, and of course she loves them with all the depth an exhausted mother of two children who never stop wrestling can muster.)
I prayed prayers no mother should admit to praying, "God, I didn't even want to be pregnant, but now I've got this fetus all up in my business and please God, the least you can do is give it an undercarriage I can relate to." In nine months I never uttered the words, "I don't care what it is, as long as it's healthy." Obviously I wanted a healthy baby, but I was invested in it being a girl.
When I finally pushed all eight pounds of that kid out of my body, feeling every single inch and ounce and what I could have sworn was a hack saw, it seemed to take 20 minutes before she was announced to the room as a girl. I looked at her, then at my husband. He looked at my obliterated lower half, traumatized, then at our daughter. "Holy sh**. I kind of wish she had a penis."
It's not that I dislike boys, I married one. And I did manage to get pregnant because I'm cool with penises in general. I just don't get boys; I don't know their motivations. I can't figure out why most of the boys I know between the ages of fetus and five seem hell-bent on breaking things just to watch them shatter and snap. I was worried that I wouldn't have the experience to draw from in raising a male child. I was intimidated by the thought of having to clean poop out from under tiny, squishy testicles.
I wanted a girl and I didn't feel guilty about it. I had my heart so set on a girl that the only reason I refused to learn the sex at ultrasound was my fear of spending four months disappointed at carrying a boy; a good friend broke down bawling while showing her ultrasound video to her in-laws, right at the point where the technician pointed out the offending genitalia. (She has two boys now, and of course she loves them with all the depth an exhausted mother of two children who never stop wrestling can muster.)
I prayed prayers no mother should admit to praying, "God, I didn't even want to be pregnant, but now I've got this fetus all up in my business and please God, the least you can do is give it an undercarriage I can relate to." In nine months I never uttered the words, "I don't care what it is, as long as it's healthy." Obviously I wanted a healthy baby, but I was invested in it being a girl.
When I finally pushed all eight pounds of that kid out of my body, feeling every single inch and ounce and what I could have sworn was a hack saw, it seemed to take 20 minutes before she was announced to the room as a girl. I looked at her, then at my husband. He looked at my obliterated lower half, traumatized, then at our daughter. "Holy sh**. I kind of wish she had a penis."
Provided byBrenna Jennings
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