Little Stinker

My mom always told me that she hoped I'd have a child just like myself to pay me back for whatever my transgressions were.

I sure hope so.

I hope she has an imagination like I did, a desire to read until her eyes itch and she suddenly remembers she has to pee. I hope she tucks the dogs in at night and sneaks them ice cream when I'm not looking. I hope she gives her daddy butterfly kisses and loves glitter as if the stars themselves have been set down in glass jars for her and her alone.

I hope she has my hands.

I decided this with tears streaming down my cheeks, my little girl waving to me on a monitor yesterday. She kicked and shuddered, her little fingers opening and closing, until the tech referred to her as a stinker, "I can't get her measurements. She sure is an active little thing."

The doctors walked in, "Are those happy tears?"

"They were scared tears. Now their happy."

I think the genetic counselor told him about me, the girl who broke down as she explained all the tests they'd need to run, the nose bone they needed to find, the neural measurements, the determination of whether our baby, boy or girl at that moment, was healthy.

"What are you feeling right now?"

Trevor looked shocked as I started sobbing, "I'm so scared. We want this so badly and all of our embryos had deformities." The idea that in five minutes my weeks of happiness could be peppered with news I'd been loathe to hear since the day we transferred our blastocyst was overwhelming.

We talked for some time about genetics, the IVF process that had taken us through five cycles and a litany of emotions, all the while thinking, Please let there be a nose bone.

And there was, beautiful and white.

The doctor patted my hand after confirming the tech's suspicion that we are, with 80% certainty, having a girl.

"You walk away from this appointment today happy that you are having a healthy baby. We will get your blood results and you let me do the worrying. All you need to know today is that everything we see looks good. She's a real kicker. That's a good sign."

Mr. J promises to teach her all the things he'd teach a boy, "She's going to be a tomboy. I'm going to take her hiking. She's going to be the best skier, best mountain biker, best rock climber and both a tennis and golf champ."

I simply promised that I'd only put one chandelier in her room.

There was no need to say anything more.