My Son Has No Penis

...or, it's a girl.

Don't take the missing exclaimation point as a lack of enthusiasm. I was just convinced that it has been a boy all this time. Yesterday was the big halftime show, and unlike at the Superbowl, not even I had to show my nipples. My doctor did the standard German 20th-week ultrasound, checking all the organs and measuring femurs and whatnot. Baby S. has, like all humans, four heart chambers and was playing with her fingers when we swung by. Or maybe she's finally gotten wind of how dorky her parents are and was praying that she could just stay in the womb until she's 18.

So, the big news is not so much the sex, but rather that everything is OK. The trepidation that overcomes me before every ultrasound is crazy. You've got something growing inside of you, demanding food and drink at odd hours like a bedridden mogul and you can't really see what's going on, other than you keep gaining weight. And then, once every four weeks, you get to peek inside. If Baby S. is anything like her mother, she'll be flipping us off at the next screening, as if to say, "Back off, bitches. I'm sure I'll get enough of you folks come December."

But what made me think that the baby was a boy? Nothing, really. It probably stemmed from my latent fear of reliving the mother-daughter relationship all.over.again. And I was a girl, and I know how we are. What if she ends up really girly? Can I really be sure that I have the ability to instill into her the values of the fearless, emanicpated woman that I would like for her to become? What if she ends up loving ponies and unicorns and all things pink? And, dear God, what if she wants make-up tips from me? I can't even apply eyeliner without ending up looking like a washed-up Vegas hooker.

Am I thinking too far ahead here? As long as she's healthy, I think I could learn to live with unicorn posters. But boy bands...?