When I was pregnant with my firstborn, I was ninety-eight percent convinced I was carrying a boy.
I couldn’t tell you why—but I was quite sure. And you know better than to argue with a pregnant lady.
So when the ultrasound tech confidently declared, “Girl!” I blinked, perplexed, and looked at my husband, Dan. Girl?We were certain they would find boy parts, not girl parts, on that fuzzy black and white screen.
As one of five sisters, I was over the moon at this news. A little girl! I knew how to do girl stuff. This could be good. The names we’d been tossing around probably weren’t going to work, though.
As it happened, by the time we got to our car in the parking lot of the doctor’s office, my imagination had taken off again. I could just picture our little girl: a tiny brunette with dark brown eyes, like mine. (Fast-forward a bit, and the girl is blonde as can be, curls aplenty, with the most beautiful green-gray eyes.)
By that point—18 weeks of not being able to keep food down, glow nowhere to be found—you’d think I would have caught on that none of this was under my control.