On July 1, I went for my 20-week ultrasound, which I’d been eagerly anticipating. Unfortunately, Andrew was in California and couldn’t go with me, which meant I’d find out the long-awaited sex of the new baby alone. At the suggestion of a friend, however, I decided to not let the technician tell me—instead, I brought a blank notecard and an envelope and had her write it down and seal it so Andrew and I could open it together when he returned later that day. Tantalizing missive tucked in my purse, I took advantage of Mom and Dad’s babysitting to go to the Met to see an exhibition called Open Windows, which was wonderful. It was my first time to the Met since moving back to New York.
Andrew managed to get an earlier flight home, so after Lucia’s bedtime we went to a nearby restaurant for the big reveal. As soon as we ordered, we opened up the envelope…and found out we’re having a girl! I screamed and then cried. I couldn’t help it. I was convinced it was a boy—had even felt certain I’d heard the technician say “he” a couple of times—and was just so excited.
A boy would have been fine. Of course it would have. I know lots of adorable little boys. But I’ve always imagined having two girls, and two little girls playing dress-up is pretty much what I picture when I picture our future family life. So yay. Let the naming begin.
Now I just have to distract Andrew from all this worrisome talk of having a third.