On Friday, Jenny and I went in for her 20-week ultrasound, and we found out that our child is a boy! We were both surprised but not unhappy; in both our families, the first child tends to be a girl, so we just assumed it would be (probability and statistics be damned). I guess we can put away Henrietta, Lucretia, and Jacobina from consideration for names for the time being.
The strangest moment for me came about an hour after we left the doctor’s office. I was thinking about what just happened, and I used the words “my son.”
That stopped me cold.
For some reason, “my son” carries a lot more emotion than “my baby,” “our little boy,” or “my child.” I talked about it with a friend who is about to have his first child later this month, and he completely agrees that there was an emotional weight to “my daughter” that he didn’t expect. Those words don’t hit Jenny as much as they hit me, but we think that’s because she can feel the little guy kicking her all day; it’s more tangible and immediate for her than it is for me.