The Boy of My Dreams

When I was 19 weeks pregnant, my husband, Dave, and I went for our first ultrasound. We were excited to see our baby and learn its sex. Unfortunately, the technician detected a slight problem.

Our baby had a penis.

For as long as I can remember, I have wanted children. Girl children. As one of two sisters, girls were all I knew. Heck, even our dog was female.

Boys, in my mind, were loud, messy, and liked things I didn't understand. Boys turned basements into swimming pools with hoses. Boys made up games like the Great Stuffed Animal Wars. Boys didn't like to shop for clothes.

When I was a kid, my mom predicted that my sister, Stacy, and my cousin Gina, because of their difficult natures, would have boys, whereas my easygoing cousin Rachel and I would be blessed with girls. Later she told us that when children get married, "you lose your boys, but you never lose your girls." Perhaps she felt this way because my father didn't have as close a relationship with his parents as she had with hers.

Now, I had nothing against baby boys. A few of my friends had sons who were adorable and gentle. But wouldn't they eventually become insect-collecting, heavy metal-loving, ESPN-watching teens I couldn't understand?

I wanted a daughter who would someday ask me to join her for an afternoon of shopping, later wedding planning, and eventually nursery theme selection. A daughter who would grow up to be my best friend. Could I have that closeness with a son?

These thoughts made me very apprehensive about learning my baby's gender. The night before the ultrasound, I confessed my fears to Dave. I was afraid not only of learning we were having a boy, but also of how I might react to the news.

At the hospital, as the technician pointed out the baby's head and feet, she was careful not to use pronouns. Finally she asked if we wanted to know the baby's sex. When she told us it was a boy, a wave of disappointment washed over me and I tried, unsuccessfully, to hold back tears.

The devastation I felt was real. But the guilt I experienced was worse. I should have been happy simply to be having a healthy child. I knew I would be happy in the long run-I didn't doubt I'd able to love a son. But I was heartbroken that I wasn't having a daughter.

Loved ones tried to comfort me. Many sang the praises of boys, saying they aren't as bratty as girls can be. My mother took me outlet shopping. But what I appreciated the most were the words offered by my friend Robin: "I'm sorry," she said. Everyone else accepted my feelings of loss, but Robin's words validated them.

A few of my friends, I was surprised to learn, had felt this same sort of disappointment and had never told me. Clearly this was a sensitive subject. I wanted people to know that what I felt was common-and normal-even if no one else was talking about it.

How did I overcome my disappointment? Honestly, I don't really know. I felt sad for a few days, and then I was fine. Maybe it was because I had no choice but to accept what fate had chosen for me. Maybe it was because I was looking forward to naming the baby Max, after my grandfather. Or maybe I realized that my preconceptions might be wrong, and for the first time, I opened my mind to the idea of a son and embraced it.

Max is now 15 months old, and I couldn't possibly love him any more than I do. He's sweet and curious. He loves to laugh and play peek-a-boo, and he enjoys my singing (which is more than I can say about anyone else). I can't imagine any other baby-even one dressed in pink-bringing me so much joy.