During my last ultrasound I was scolded for not coming in with a full bladder, so I made sure to chug a liter of water and a glass of orange juice this time before dropping trou and feeling the warm X-ray goo poured over my belly.



The ultrasound tech told me afterward that I didn't need a full bladder for this one. But that wouldn't be as fun as using every ounce of my energy to hold pee in while she pressed onto my stomach.



So for half an hour we got to watch our baby kick and squirm, twist and flip, while I tried my damnedest not to pee on myself.



The tech asked at the very end if I had an intuition about the sex. I said boy, because that's what I've said all along.



I was wrong.

Look at her.

She's perfect. Heart, lungs, spine, bones, nose, nuchal fold, arms, legs, fingers, toes. They're all there. And they're all perfect.



I'm too overwhelmed at the moment to write much. We went to breakfast afterward and started listing our myriad expectations for her. So far, we want her to be a drummer, like I always wished I was. A guitarist, like her dad. A dancer, because I wish I hadn't quit all those years ago. A feminist, because, duh, I wouldn't have it any other way. A daddy's girl. Tolerant and open-minded. A reader, since she'll be a Lavery and will have no other choice.



I have no idea who she'll be, but I know she'll be loved beyond measure.



And I'm sorry, daughter, for thinking all this time you were a boy. Really, I only thought so because deep down I wanted you to be a girl. I didn't want to jinx it.