XX

Long before my husband and I started our family there was a foregone conclusion of male exclusivity.  I am the only girl among nine grandchildren, and my husband is the oldest of five brothers.  Not only did we believe ourselves to be physically incapable of producing anything but boys, but my husband demonstrated a disturbing bias against little girls.  In a manner reminiscent of Bill Cosby, he considered females to be “unripe males,” urging his friends who were stricken with such affliction to return their daughters to the womb until they were “viable.”

I thought such thinking went out with Anne Boleyn’s head.  Enlightened in most other ways, my husband was oddly stuck on the notion that the ability to produce male progeny would somehow reflect negatively on his manhood. 

I always thought I would be the kind of person who waited for birth to learn the gender of my child.  As luck would have it, I was a candidate for genetic screening.  When carrying my son, some abnormal tests forced me to have amniocentesis.  When the lab results were finally available, which included an incidental identification of the child’s sex, I found that I could not stand to have the doctor know a piece of my medical information to which I was not privy.  So when push came to shove, I agreed to learn the sex of the baby.  When my husband learned we were having a boy he celebrated as if he had won the State Lottery.

The second time around I was in my mid-30s; we went straight to the amnio without passing go or collecting two hundred dollars.  Once again, after being cleared of genetic abnormalities, I was asked whether I wished to learn the sex of the baby.  “You don’t have to tell me,” I laughed.  “We only have boys in our family.”

The nurse asked again.  “Do you wish to know the sex of the baby?”  Again I indicated my confidence that I was carrying a boy.  When she asked the third time, I took the hint.  “Fine, tell me the sex,” I said, half mockingly.

“It’s a girl,” she said. 

First, I was utterly shocked.  I had really never allowed myself to consider the possibility of having a baby girl.  Then the doubt began to creep in.  I remembered my husband’s warnings that I was only “allowed” to have boys.  He was only kidding, wasn’t he?  But what if he wasn’t?  What if he was really going to be disappointed by a daughter?

I took a deep breath.  Then I picked up the phone and ordered large bouquet of baby pink balloons delivered to his office.

It was difficult to tell whether he was disappointed or not.  Perhaps he thought he was being funny asking things like, “What are you supposed to do with a baby girl?” or “Why is everything the color of Pepto Bismol?”  But the moment they put that tiny bundle in his arms he melted all over the floor.  He began to coo and speak in soft whispers.  His voice cracked when he turned to me and said, “Look how sweet she is!”

After more than nineteen years my husband is still clueless around our little girl.  He feels the need to protect her from the boogie man and the things that go bump in the night.  He is useless in the presence of her tears.  He has the urge to reduce her boyfriend to a pile of salt for no particular reason.  He wants to spoil her, teach her, cuddle her, and praise her.   She frustrates the heck out of him frequently and terrifies him constantly, yet she never fails to dazzle him.

My husband may have placed an order for a different model, but in the end he got what he really wanted.   And it tickled him pink.

Tomorrow's blog:  Teacher, Teacher, I Declare (Part One)