We Are Having a Boy! Or a Girl! Or a Demon!

Willpower, thy name is Sara.


Not really. But this feels kind of awesome so I’m going to roll with it. I spent a large chunk of my first pregnancy adamant that we would not be finding out the sex of our baby. “I want to be surprised,” cried the psycho who stalks her husband’s Google history in the weeks leading up to Christmas. It was a surprise to no one, least of all myself, that the morning of my anatomy scan I was itching like a drug fiend, dying to know more details on the contents of my uterus.



After feeling so sure that I wanted The Moment (where the doctor cries “IT’S A (something)!”) I killed it the first chance I got. So this time, I gave Adam orders months ago that if I started to cave and wanted to find out the sex, he needed to assume the impossible task of being louder than me and having me sit my ass down. I knew that my future self was both unpredictable and totally predictable and that she would try to fuck up my chances at The Moment. Plus, I felt like this is going to be my only shot to be surprised.


I was so sure August was a boy, and I really, really wanted a boy. So part of finding out was just getting confirmation that I was right. This time? Nothin. I don’t have a feeling, and I honestly don’t have a preference. I thought I was going to be dead set on having a girl this time. But truth is, I really don’t give a crap. I will be pumped if it’s a girl. I will be pumped if it’s a boy. I will have some internal struggles if it’s a republican, but that’s a ways off. Basically, this probably won’t be our last baby, and it’s probably the only time I’m not going to be super curious about what we are having.



I was so curious with August, and had such a strong feeling that he was a boy, that it has kind of surprised me that I’ve had no intuition and very little curiosity this time. In so many ways, this pregnancy is a completely different ballgame from my first. In the beginning, it was all the same. I was nauseous forever and ever, felt like hell, and could barely eat. With August, I went weeks on just apples, string cheese, and pita chips. This pregnancy, all I could eat in the early puke stages was grilled cheese and soup. But absolutely everything else has been different.


People ask how I’m feeling all the time, and I can say “Good!” without rolling my eyes and mime-barfing. Last time, I was pretty much bed ridden because I felt like hell on earth at all moments. Looking back, that’s probably because I lived off of macaroni and cheese and powdered donuts and nothing that could be mistaken for a vegetable. This time, I ate one reasonable portion of macaroni and cheese and went sort of bananas over the holidays, but my diet has been that of a sort-of-adult mostly this time. So high five to me for learning to eat green stuff that isn’t just the shamrock marshmallows in Lucky Charms.


Oh, my sweet, forbidden love.


It’s crazy to not feel infirmed this time around. A huge contributing factor has been my Stroller Strides class. I haven’t even been able to go that much this pregnancy, because I was so sick my first trimester and then all the holiday ridic shit got in the way. But before I got pregnant, that class helped me get into the best shape of my life. I wasn’t my lowest weight, but I was healthier than I’ve ever been, and having such a great baseline going in has made a noticeable difference. Last pregnancy, I would get legit mad at Adam if he didn’t find the absolute closest parking space to something because WALKING?! I can’t imagine feeling like that while also having to keep up with a two-year old whose favorite game is “Come Chase Me Now”.


And I can no longer rely on my beloved Adderall.


But with the good, also comes the bad. With August, I straight up didn’t wash my face and I had the best skin of my life. I never took off my makeup, rinsed with water in the mornings, and enjoyed life with clear skin for the first time since I was maybe eight years old. This time? I look like I wash my face, but that instead of soap, I pull the cheese off a slice of pizza and rub that all over my mug. Delicious.


Now I want a pizza.
Now I want a pizza.


And dear lord, the weight distribution. I’m not gaining an absurd amount like last time. But instead of mostly carrying in front and having a cute, although enormous, baby bump, I look like I’m shoplifting an inner tube under my shirt. And somehow, without my butt looking bigger, I’ve managed to just bust out in the entire behind-me region. I am a girthy woman this pregnancy. To the point where, when someone who I haven’t seen in a long time goes, “Oh, you’re pregnant!” I have had to stop responding with a jokey “Nope, I just got fat,” because they always believe me and shit if that doesn’t send me straight for the loving embrace of a Keebler Elf.


At least he knows how to treat a lady.


So basically, this pregnancy is different. And it leads me to believe that therefore the babies are different. So now I’m also scared of what kind of unforetold demon is going to burst forth. Looking forward to all my dreams where I give birth and then the baby’s head spins and I get a face full of pea soup. Thumbs up emoji.



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