In October of last year we discovered through ultrasound that we would have a third girl. My heart sank. I didn't want another girl, I wanted a boy. I went out to the car and cried. I didn't want to seem ungrateful in front of the technician who was telling us we had a healthy growing child.
I vacillated between guilt for being so selfish, and anger that God would not give me the boy I had prayed for before we even conceived. For goodness sake, we didn't even INTEND to conceive this child... therefore, I knew this child would be special, and had to be a boy.
For months after that ultrasound, I denied the "three lines" theory, and told myself time and again that I was actually having a boy. The tech must be wrong. I just "knew." I didn't buy many girlie things, I anticipated (vain faith?) that I would actually get what I had wanted all along.
And then March 19th came, and I delivered our baby girl in the hospital observation room while screaming at the intensity with which my body was doing this miraculous feat, and I knew it was a girl. And they put her on my chest, and I saw her, and I knew that she had been the one I'd prayed for all along.
The next morning in my hospital bed, staring at the tiny blond person that my body had made in 9 months time, I cried. I could hardly believe that I had hoped for another child. This was the special girl that God knew I needed. She was perfect, and beautiful, and... then the nurse walked in to me in tears staring at my newborn. She must have told the midwife I was in there crying, someone looked up my chart, and they were soon offering me the Zoloft I had forgotten at home. They reassured me everything would be alright.
But I already knew, everything was more than alright. It was exactly as it should be.
