When you announce to the world that you’re pregnant, the first thing people ask you is “Are you going to find out the gender?!”
Followed by squeals.
Followed by, “Are you hoping for a boy or a girl?!”
It’s the weirdest thing. Those two questions happen before the obligatory “How are you feeling?” and even before the post-stomach-staring “How far along are you?”
Of course the politically correct answer is: we just want a healthy baby. Boy or girl doesn’t matter, so long as it’s healthy.
And then there’s the real answer. The real answer deep down inside your heart, where you hide all of the truths that you would never admit to anyone except your spouse. And God. But He already knows, so that doesn’t really count.
Eight weeks ago, I had a real answer to that question. A real answer that scared me, because to even possess it felt selfish. To have a preference one way or the other felt wrong, like I was a terrible mother for putting my wants and desires ahead of our baby’s own identity, which has undoubtedly already been determined in a million ways.
The more I thought about it, and the more I prayed, God reminded me of something. He reminded me that He’s blessing us with a boy or a girl for a specific reason, and that His reasoning is far better than any case I could justify for a preference. He already knows our baby, every hair on their head, exactly who they are, and who they will become. So for the next four days while we still don’t know, I’m going to let my faith rest comfortably in that.
(….but let the record show, I do think it’s a boy. What do you think?! We find out on Friday!)
