The Day I Found Out I Was Having a Daughter
Growing up, my whole generation of cousins on both sides of the family was about 75% female. Maybe 80%. I have seven female cousins and two male cousins. The next generation compensated, producing, so far, six boys and one girl.
When it came time to learn the gender of my baby, I was already convinced I would be having a boy. Nearly everyone in my life, friends *and* family (with the exception of just one person) had boys. For some reason, all my life, people were convinced I’d be the one to have the daughter. This was based on nothing beyond maybe hope? I was a particularly girly girl growing up; always donned in fashion accessories, clacking along in plastic toy heels, slathered in my mom’s Avon makeup samples. My mother recently reminded me of the time she got a phone call from my pre-school letting her know I was forcing lipstick on the other kids…and I remember it clearly. There was a period when I was around 5 or 6 where I wouldn’t leave the house if I didn’t have a ring on literally every finger. No kid wanted to mess with me on the playground…I had a fist full of metal at all times.
But from the moment I learned I was going to be a mother, I let my brain settle into imaging a little niño. My son, Charles’ son, what a thrill. Not to give away too much of Charles’ thoughts as he’s far more private than I am, he did worry about the implications and weight of raising a black son in this world. We talked about it, and he took the role very seriously. How could he help to rear a man with the delicate, almost impossible balance of being sensitive, strong, caring, clever, aware?
I think the realization of playing make-believe baby as we had for the majority of our relationship (thinking of names, fantasizing about a family, talking about how we would raise these pretend people) was soon to be solidified for real, and he had a lot to dwell on.
We had the choice to know the baby’s gender at around week 12 (after some 10-week testing), but we decided to wait to find out with family during our upcoming trip to Florida. Waiting a month was excruciating. I was tempted so many times to just call the OB and ask for the results, but I knew I wouldn’t. Again…tempting, but the wait would be worth it. Originally, my sister was going to be the keeper of the secret, working with a friend to make a little reveal cake for a very small get together with my immediate family (Charles’ family lives a few hours away, so they would Zoom in), but at the last minute, we changed it to my brother-in-law so she could be surprised, too.
He knew for a week, and I couldn’t have been more antsy and anxious and excited all those 7 days while we waited to find out. Of course, it didn’t matter. It’s one or the other, so in pure logic, it’s not that big of a surprise. I was always the type to get a bit exasperated when I saw these giant gender reveal parties, over-the-top theatrics and smoke bombs and…oh who knows what else people come up with. But you know what? It IS exciting. When it’s your baby, it all feels different. Charles and I never had a wedding, I never had a sweet 16 or any large attention-hoarding type party in my honor in my entire life. This was the closest I’d get to date, so I let myself enjoy the tiny bit of fanfare we were creating (if you can count one cake and like 10 family members on a low-key Sunday afternoon fanfare).
The night before, I lay awake, going through the “what if it’s a boy?!?” and “what if it’s a girl?!?” quandaries to Charles. That ever-practical man most certainly said something like “well…it’s one of those” but I knew even beyond his (annoyingly) realistic responses, he was excited, too. Not because either of us really preferred a son or a daughter, but so that we could make the baby—which until that point felt pretty theoretical, to be honest—feel a bit more real to us.
I’ll skip ahead, past me making ribs for everyone and my dear friend coming to surprise me—“How could I have missed this?” she said when she arrived—to standing in front of the cake with Charles, knife in hand, about to slice through. My heart was racing with excitement, and as soon as I pulled the knife out from the first cut, I knew. A tiny little hot pink sprinkle had stuck to the frosting on the edge of the blade, and all of a sudden, I had a daughter. Once Charles saw it, he dropped his head to my chest for a moment to react in joy, and we both teared up a bit. No one watching, there in person or on the other side of computer and phone screens knew until we said it out loud. It was ours to hold for a few seconds.
A daughter. We were having a daughter. I would have had the same joy with a son, of course, but the idea of a new baby adventure for the family felt so, so nice.
That was nearly two months ago, and there are still days when the realization dawns on me that I’m holding my daughter inside of me makes me break down in (hormonal) tears. I’ve been in the close presence of plenty of pregnant people throughout my life, but you just don’t truly understand it all until it’s happening to you. I guess the same can be said for anything, really. Feeling her little kicks and jabs and flutters is my favorite thing in the world right now. My daughter. Flouncing around in there, growing, thriving. I’ve taken to calling her “nena” (Spanish for girl) and we chit-chat all day. I talk to her about what I’m doing, about her family, about her daddy. Sing her silly songs the way my mom has done with me my whole life. It’s more for me than for her, of course, but she’s my little buddy already.
I can’t wait to meet her. My daughter. My nena.
See you tomorrow, FOAS.