On my 8th birthday, my parents informed me that I was going to have a new baby sister or brother in 4 months.
I was absolutely convinced that this baby was going to be the baby sister that I had always wanted.
That was the LONGEST 4 months of my life.
My brothers and I argued and fought over the gender of the baby — the boys being convinced that Baby was a boy and me being convinced that Baby was a girl.
One day, the doctor told us that based on the heartbeat, Baby was likely to turn out to be a girl.
I was triumphant.
A few weeks later, the doctor told us that based on Baby’s size, it was likely to be a boy.
The boys crowed their victory.
But time would tell.
My dreams also suggested the gender of my newest sibling. I had several dreams about this new baby, and in every dream, the baby was a boy.
Those dreams caused a lot of anxiety for me. What would I do with 4 brothers? Isn’t 3 enough for one girl?
Finally, on an overcast morning in early September, my mom grabbed her already packed overnight bag and walked the 6 blocks to the hospital.
Several hours later, my dad called to tell us to get ready to go, because he was coming home to pick us up and take us to the hospital to meet our newest little brother.
And it wasn’t tears of joy.
Oh, yes, I was happy that my brother was here. But I was bitterly disappointed that I was surrounded by a multitude of brothers and I didn’t have anybody to do girlie stuff with.
I also cried because in some of the dreams I had had, the baby boy was sickly/ugly/malformed and I was so afraid I would go to the hospital and see a baby that was somehow imperfect.
Fortunately, those parts of the dreams didn’t happen in reality.
Baby Timmy was beautiful, in a manly sort of way. I was completely captivated and immediately decided that it was ok that he was a boy. Obviously, I still wanted a sister, but I wouldn’t have changed Timmy for anything.