Four

Before we found out that Harper would be a girl, I was sure that she was a boy. I have no idea why, but it probably stemmed from my own ungirlishness. I was sure that I would not be able to handle a girl, with all the Barbies and the pink and the PMS factor … and a probable love of horses and ponies and the like. I distinctly remember being a teenage girl, and I knew I didn’t want one in MY house.

During the ultrasound when we found out, Björn was telling the gynocologist how we hoped that our kid would be able to play professional soccer on the German national team – regardless of the fact that the combination of our completely talentless genes would make something like that highly unlikely. She simply said, “You’re going to have to sign up her for the women’s team.”

And I am ashamed to say that I felt a pang, something similar to disappointment. I briefly saw Hannah Montana and unicorns and boy bands and other crimes against humanity in my future.

And then: A girl. Our girl.

I don’t need to tell you that there’s no way I would ever trade Harper for a boy. Although, when people ask us how old he is, I tell them and then asked them with a look of concern, “When do you think his penis is finally going to come in?”