Today will always be a day I’ll remember. But not because of gunpowder, treason and plot. On this rainy, dreary, chilled morning there’s an entirely different reason why the fifth of November shall never “be forgot.”
For days, I’ve prayed. Prayed without ceasing, you could say. Prayed for a heart with four chambers. A brain formed without flaw. A well-made lip, ten fingers and toes, perfectly sized kidneys, bladder and stomach.
I couldn’t sleep last night. I was beyond nervous this morning. And as I began to recline on the table in the ultrasound room, I said one last fervent prayer.
When the tech placed the wand on my belly, the first thing I saw were two legs squirming around – two gorgeous, long legs with big feet at the end. I immediately began to relax.
The woman who was performing the scan was an expert, and guided the wand quickly across my middle.
“Do you want to know the sex?” she asked.
She didn’t even get a chance to hear our answer or announce the result because it was suddenly, glaringly obvious what kind of equipment our kid was carrying.
I mean, wow. Just. Whoa, dude.
“That’s, um, definitely a boy,” she snorted. My husband broke out in a massive shit-eating grin.
I was instantaneously transported to a whole other plane of existence.
My sons. I have sons. That thought buzzed around between my ears before coming to alight on my heart.
My boys. Brothers.
I barely heard anything else she said – so strange since I’d been so worried – as she finished the scan. Everything beautifully made, perfectly knit.
I was just so in love right then. So in love with the idea of watching my two boys get to know each other. Play with each other. Beat each other up then sit down to share a snack.
I never thought it would be possible for my heart to stretch any more than it did when I had my first son. But sitting there on that table, I was almost short of breath as that same heart threatened to break free of the moorings in my chest.
Monkey was sitting patiently with his father on the bench beside me. We told him, “That’s your baby brother!”
“Baby brother?” he asked. “Ok!”
Y’all, I am so enthralled with the idea of being a mother to sons. I am not a delicate flower, my sense of humor is bawdy and my personality brash. I am, I believe, perfectly suited to raising boys.
My husband is rather smug at the moment. As the only boy on his father’s side, he feels all kingly having provided two men to carry on that name. It makes me giggle – it’s not like we’re Vanderbilts – but I can see how for a man that’s an important thing.
Oh, and remember how I said we had names picked out and I just needed to know the sex so we could start calling it by its name?
Yeah, we’re just gonna call him Turtle, because the second I saw his face all the names we’d decided on just melted away and I feel like we must start from scratch.
So, um, help.
My father used to play with my brother and me in the yard. Mother would come out and say, “You’re tearing up the grass.” “We’re not raising grass,” Dad would reply. “We’re raising boys.” ~Harmon Killebrew
It snowed last year too:
I made a snowman and my brother knocked it down
and I knocked my brother down and then we had tea.