But once the baby was declared healthy and we wiped the cold sweat from our foreheads, the tech smiled and said "It's a girl." Our brains began to spin.
I'd like to preface this post by saying my husband is one of those delightful males who is totally secure in his manhood. He buys makeup and tampons for me. He shrugs his shoulders and says "whatever you want" when I eat too much pie, get high on a sugar level spike and start screaming, "I'm going to paint the whole house pink! Wouldn't that be beautiful?" He doesn't bat an eye when I putter back and forth in front of his tv line of sight and decorate the man-room mantle in the frilliest, sparkliest, girliest Christmas decorations... on November 17th. But that's another story.
Matt wasn't pining away for a male prodigy to burp and fist bump with. But as we held hands and gazed into each others eyes, I saw a tiny bit of worry in his deep violet peepers.
"I think my job just got harder," he smiled, happy tears rolling down his cheeks.
Ha. Just kidding. The only time I've seen Matt remotely close to crying was when Mabel was a puppy and got stuck behind the refrigerator. Again. Another story.
I shook my head and patted his hand, "Nope honey. MY job just got a lot harder."
And that's when I told him this story.
One time Mom and Dad had an argument. Dad stomped into the living room and Mom clanked dishes loudly in the kitchen. She simmered for a while, and then noticed the house was uncharacteristically quiet. She rounded the corner into the living room and stopped short.
Dad was sitting in his chair, eyes closed. Rebecca (age 9) was standing behind the chair, lovingly combing his hair. Rachel (age 5)was perched in his lap, patting his face. They both gazed at Mom accusingly, and continued to console poor Daddy. It was clear whose side of the argument the girls favored, and Mom was clearly the loser.
People always patted Dad's back and said, "Three daughters? I'm sorry." But the person they should have been handing apologies to was Mom. She was the one we rolled our eyes at and mouthed off to. We ignored her advice. We snuck around behind her back. Daddy was sacrosanct.
So as unfamiliar as pink tutus and intricate architectural constructs of the female pony tale may be to Matt, he's not the one who really has to worry. I do. He'll be the good guy. I'll be the one who says things like, "No, you can't get your ears pierced a third time, you're ten." And Jane hold up a hand, and mumble "whatever mom" as she trots off to give Matt a foot massage.
And I can't wait.