Currently, I am knee deep in the depths of motherhood. Two babies, six months and sixteen months old and my life is completely hectic and constant chaos. But I wouldn’t trade it for anything because there was a time, not all that long ago, that I thought I may never be here.
Here’s a little backstory to help understand where I’m coming from: My husband and I were married in July 2014, and just a few short months later, we found out we were expecting. Overjoyed was an understatement but shortly after that, we miscarried at 10 weeks in early 2015. We were devastated, but as we began to heal, we found out we were expecting again in March, only a few months after the first. Unfortunately, this second pregnancy also ended in miscarriage at 6 weeks. We decided to take a break and work on healing my body and our souls as those losses had taken an emotional toll on us. However, in November 2015, we yet again found ourselves pregnant, only to miscarry a few short weeks later. You do the math: 3 miscarriages in one calendar year. Not sure if I’m a glutton for punishment or what, but that was, by far, the most difficult year of my life, physically and emotionally.
Fast forward to March 2017 and once again, my husband and I found out we were expecting again. With some extremely cautious optimism, we pushed forward week by week until we made it past was we call “the point of no return” (the gestational age of our longest pregnancy thus far). Things were looking great and we couldn’t have been happier.
When it came time to have our 20-week anatomy scan, we were both extremely nervous and tremendously excited. I remember the ultrasound tech asking if we were hoping for one gender or the other and we both replied “we are just wanting a healthy baby.” Maybe it was because of what we had been through, but neither of us cared one bit about whether our little nugget was male or female. Most people assumed that my husband, the football coach, was desperate for a little boy of his own. But whenever anyone asked, his answer was always “I don’t care as long as he/she is healthy.” That may sound cheesy or cliche, but it was the God’s honest truth for both of us. When #2 came along, we had the exact same mentality. All we could ask for was a healthy baby with all 10 fingers and toes and all major organs working properly. Gender did not matter to us one bit.
Recently, I have seen multiple conversations, both in mom groups and on social media in general, about this “gender disappointment” trend, if that’s what we want to call it. I may offend a few people here, but I just don’t understand how a parent could honestly be “disappointed” to the point that he/she is significantly upset about the gender of a child. Again, maybe my own personal experience gives me a totally different perspective but even if I hadn’t gone through all of that, I still would not care what the gender of my child was because it wouldn’t matter: I always thought I would be a “boy mom” and end up with all boys. I was a tomboy growing up and just figured that I was destined to have boys. But life had other plans and after my son was born, my daughter followed, just 10 months and a day later. Did I want a girl? Not necessarily. Did I want a boy? Not particularly. I just wanted a healthy baby. Honestly.
I guess it just really irritates me to see parents excessively upset about the gender of their unborn babies. Are you allowed to be slightly disappointed if you really wanted one gender and didn’t get it? Sure. But to be overly emotional and ask questions like “Am I going to love this child as much even though I wanted a girl instead?” or “How do you deal with the fact that this is your last baby and you just found out it was another boy?” just infuriate me. Children are a gift, and regardless of their gender, they just need someone to love and care for them. Knowing there are so many people out there who are unable to have children on their own only solidifies my viewpoint that parents should be grateful for the child or children they are given.