I have a beautiful, massively healthy boy. He’s a real boy’s boy. All about the cars and Lego and superheroes and bashing and smashing. The colour blue and being noisy and dirty. Motorbikes and soccerballs. Hulksmash and Spiderman.
Much to his father’s delight. Mine too – in all honesty. When I was pregnant with The Kid, I was desperate for him to be a boy. I was ecstatic that he was a boy.
Two people said it was a boy (when a plethora of gynaes with their ultrasound machines couldn’t) – a sangoma and someone else’s a psychic. Don’t laugh. The psychic said there was a blonde-haired blue-eyed boy waiting to be born. She’d never met me or my fiance. The sangoma said there was going to be complications with the umbilical cord and that I’d have to have an emergency c-section. And that’s totally how it happened. So, as cynical as I am, I have the tendency to believe them.
That same psychic also said there was a girl. Waiting to be born. You know what else said it was a girl? The Magic 8 Ball.
Yes. You’re absolutely snorting with laughter right now. But when we were at Sheena’s Jewmas party a few weeks ago, one of the Secret Santa presents was a Magic 8 Ball. Every single person at the party asked the 8 Ball if I was having a girl. All of the answers were to the affirmative. And we all know that the 8 Ball never lies, right?
So I’m finally about 17/18ish weeks, and I figure it’s time to find out. I have a gynae’s appointment at 2pm today, to see. Whether it’s pink or blue. Girl or boy. I say “girl”, fiance says “boy”.
What do you think? Think I’m going to be lucky enough to get one of each, or I’m going to be outnumbered and overwhelmed by testosterone?