Like Mother, Like Daughter (one)

The other day I had my ultrasound for my second child.  I knew what it was long before the ultrasound.  This pregnancy was different.  I was sick from the beginning; and not sick like I was with my first, where I threw up once in the morning and was then fine for the rest of the day, but sick-sick all day long. I threw up early and frequently, and felt nauseous at least until dinner.  I threw up two or three times a day until about week twelve.  It then started to subside a little, throwing up just once a day, then once every few days, and even now,  toward the end of my pregnancy, I’m still throwing up about once a week.  I lost seven pounds, then slowly gained it back, still only a few pounds above what I was before I was pregnant. To this I shouldn’t complain.  But this weight came off of my ass—the one place on my body where I like the curves.  Why not come off my thunder thighs or my jello-jiggler arms?  I could feel the kiddo moving around starting at only five inches long, weighing only eight ounces—already kicking and punching me.  Now that she’s up to five-plus pounds, those kicks and karate chops and summersaults are getting painful.  I get cramps in my abdomen, have intermittent sacroiliac back pain, and have had itching and chaffing in an area where no woman should ever have to scratch.  I’ve been more tired than I was with my first pregnancy, needing a nap everyday at about two o’clock, my grouchiness at this time enough for whomever I’m with to say, “Why don’t you go ahead and go rest for a while.  I’ll take Clem to the park,” as they rush out the door to get away from me.  It was early on that I realized that this pregnancy was different, that this child was different.  No boy, I said, would ever treat his mama so badly.  This is definitely a girl.  Only a girl would be this mean to her mama.  And of course, much to my dismay, we found out that my assumption was correct. 

My dismay was apparent when the ultrasound technician typed on the screen “It’s a girl.”  I tried to smile and be excited, but the disappointment was too much to conceal.  I’ve used the excuse about having all the stuff for a boy since I was first asked what I was hoping for.  I’ve got about twenty boxes of boy clothes in the garage, just waiting to be reused.  And lord knows I don’t have the means to be buying a bunch of new clothes, which, apparently, have to be pink.  The second reason I’ve claimed is my distaste in fixing hair.  I’ve been adamant in letting my husband, and the rest of the family, know that my daughter will have short hair.  I am not going to fight with a toddler to hold still so I can comb and brush and braid and pony-tail and clip her hair.  Hell, I can’t even remember or make the time to brush my son’s hair in the morning.  And my husband has a baseball cap permanently glued to his head, so I’m not counting on him either.  But in reality, these are only a very small piece of my disappointment in having a girl.  Many of my son’s old clothes will work fine, and we have a lot of friends with female kids, so I’m sure more will be handed down.   My daughter will have a cute bob, as I did when I was little, and will be just fine.