It's (maybe) a girl!!

We went to the hospital this week for our last scan before our new baby arrives. Since we’ve been there before a few times before the consultant and the midwives know us pretty well. We tend to get the usual laughs in the corridor. “You two again,” they shout guffawing. “Order up for another baby boy”. Oh how we laugh and laugh.
You see they know our history, they know we have three beautiful boys; they know that the O’Neill gene seems to be superhuman and O’Neill babies tend mostly to be of the male variety.
While we waited in the corridor a lady who had just had her scan sat beaming at us. She told us she had finally got the news she was having a girl. I asked her how many boys she had. Nine was her answer. Nine boys. Nine boys fighting over the remote control and wrestling on the living room carpet. Holy mother of God, I thought. I do not want to be that soldier.
When we went into the scan room the midwife was asking if we might think about auditioning for the Channel 4 documentary “Eight boys and counting.”
We all laughed. I told her I had my bag packed and although we weren’t sure what the baby would turn out as the thing was packed to the gills with hand-me-down baby grows with tractors and burly, hairy builders on them, perfect for our probably boy.
The radiographer said he could see the sex of the baby and he could tell us now if we wanted to know. We said no we’d wait. He said that he could see quite clearly. We said no, it’s grand, we’ll wait. He said that he could see, here, look, here, like he could tell us like right now and put us out of our misery. He was practically jumping off the seat. I said no. The husband said yes.
The midwife asked the radiographer to whisper the news to her. She squealed and jumped up and down, hugged me, shook hands with the husband. We stood there thinking they were both mad and then gave in.
“It’s a girl,” he said. The scanner guy was so delighted, I swear there were tears in his eyes.
The last time I felt shock like it was when a taxi driver hit our car on a roundabout a few months back. But very unlike that unpleasant time it was a pretty fantastic shock. It was a shock with a lot less bad language and a few less taxi drivers calling me a visually and mentally impaired female motor vehicle operator. This was more like an undiluted sunshine shock; it was pure joy and surprise.
We asked him ten times if he was sure. The husband asked him another five times after that. He had gone a funny colour and had to sit on the side of the bed. He could foresee our bank balance disappearing before his very eyes and imagined that he’d have to have his wages paid directly into the Next baby department for the foreseeable future.
You see he’s used to dealing with boys. Baby girls are a whole new pink infused world. Baby boys are made from muck and snails and puppy dog tails, little girls are all sugar, spice and all things nice and expensive.
All the husband could think of was future gentleman callers, the fact that he’d have to buy a shotgun and adapt a more menacing demeanour for such occasions and how he’d have to train our boys in the fields of mortal combat. He was also concerned about if we were still time enough to enrol her in the local college for nuns.
Boys have ruled our house for a long time. Things will have to change. There will be no more burping the theme tune to Top Gear, no more bad words, no more muck pies and eating worms. And, as well as the husband, our little boys will have to make a few changes too.
They have a few concerns of their own – mostly over the lack of room there’s going to be on the sofa and the fact that a girl might like puke-inducing girlie things like Dora the Explorer or shopping. Also my boys have a long-standing, deep dislike of Barbie and have vowed that if she ever dare darken our doorstep, Action Man with the moveable laser eyes could not be held responsible for his actions.
Of course, I would have been equally as happy if the child would had of been a boy. I’m of the mind that as long as it’s healthy, I’m happy. But after seven years of buying blue stuff, tripping over cars, trucks and slipping on muck brought in from the garden, it’ll be nice to shop for frilly dresses and go to tea parties – even if there’s a chance Action Man might go crazy and shoot the place up with his laser eyes.