Secret Confession
It’s a boy.
My heart is broken. I am so disappointed. I never wanted two boys. I never saw my life like this. My whole life I’ve thought I’d someday have a daughter. It’s what I always pictured, always knew to be true. And now I am miserable. I’m not happy about this new baby boy. I feel broken and hollow inside. Like my hopes blew away in yesterday’s afternoon breeze. I am completely ashamed of the degree of my sadness, ashamed to admit to anyone how wrong I feel this is. I feel guilty. I feel like I’m a terrible and shallow person. I am ugly and evil.
It’s not what I wanted. It’s not fair. I wanted a little darling. I wanted someone I could relate to. I wanted my daughter to grow up and be my friend and companion and confidante. I fear I will never have this type of relationship with my sons. Oh God, my sons.
I wanted someone to cherish and be feminine with. I wanted dresses and hair clips and ballet lessons and horses and unicorns and fairies. I wanted someone to shop with and do silly things like get facials and someone to talk about feminism with. I wanted someone to share my interests. I wanted someone to share what I know about men, women, friendships, relationships, goodness and truth with. I am afraid that as my children grow, they will grow farther and farther away from me, instead of toward me in closeness. I wanted someone to be with me when I am old and alone.
I am so sad and I am shocked at this pain. I feel inconsolable. I want to change it. There is no way to change it.
I cannot talk about it. I can’t talk to my mother or father, Ian’s parents, or my friends. Our family knows, and I cannot show this to them. I keep crying like an idiot. I don’t want to tell people my baby is healthy, has all his parts, and looks great on the sonogram screen. I don’t want to share the pictures. I don’t think I can fake happiness right now, even though I am relieved to see he’s whole and apparently healthy. I’m not ready for this. I’m not strong enough.
I don’t want people’s sympathy. I don’t want cheering up. I don’t want to hear people blow off my despair because little boys are nice too. I don’t want to hear how great it will be for Lucas to have a little brother. How two boys are so much fun, or whatever. I don’t want my sadness and disappointment to be known because I’m ashamed and embarrassed to feel this way, nor do I want it minimized because it’s the biggest and darkest and most powerful feeling of grief I’ve ever felt.
I don’t want to hear people say they feel sorry for me. I don’t want to hear how great a mother I’m going to be for my sons. I don’t want to hear how it will all be all right as soon as I hold my new baby—that I’ll get over it. I don’t want to get over it.
I want a girl baby.
