When I was pregnant with Gus, I was sure he would be a girl.
I’m a girl. My mom is a girl. Her sisters — all girls. My cousins, overwhelmingly girls. All their kids (you guessed it) even more girls.
But at 16 weeks, we found out he was, well, a he. The first boy in my immediate family, in more than two decades.
And all the old wives’ tales were true. I wanted salty foods. I looked preeeeetty good, glowing and all that. Whatever his heartbeat averaged, meant he was a boy. That old Chinese gender chart (while technically not applicable thanks to IVF) said he’d be a boy.
I want sweet things. And salty things. Basically I want all the things that aren’t vegetables. But last time, sweet just seemed gross, and this time it seems like a good idea.
And I’m less pretty. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still super cute, as long as you’re not put off by all these pimples and this beard I’m slowly growing.
I don’t know why, but my intuition has been screaming GIRL GIRL GIRRRLLLLL at me for weeks.
My intuition, it seems, is crap.
Little Brother, coming in September.
(The anatomy scan went very well, and baby was measuring on schedule with all of his (HIS!) bits and bobs right where they should be.)