Majority Rules: It's A...

Turns out, my gut was right.

My husband's wish came true.

And, when it came down to whether the baby was a boy or a girl, majority rules.

We are so excited to be expecting a baby girl this June.

I literally still haven't stopped smiling since we found out yesterday afternoon. My head is a-swim with thoughts of pink polka dots and little tie-dyed sundresses. I'm mesmerized and overwhelmed by the thought that we are going to get the opportunity to raise up a little woman.

Meanwhile, the hubs is now actively shopping for a shotgun.

Life couldn't get any better.

Granted, I'd be saying the same thing if I was toting around a little boy in my belly.

Mostly, I'm just thrilled she looked healthy, with a strong spine, an active brain, a pumping heart, and prominent thighs - just like her mama, poor thing.

Both the hubs and I stared wide-eyed at the little movements she showed us, waving and kicking and crossing her legs.

It's crazy and miraculous and awe-inspiring all in the same breath.

So, for now, bring on the ruffles and the hair-bows. The pigtails and the frilly dresses. The bloomers and the flowery blankets. It's taking everything I have not to head out post-haste and purchase all manner of sweet, pink things.

My heart is just so happy, and I can't wait to finish growing this little angel and meet her in just a few months.

Because, indeed, we're having a baby girl!

(insert me doing a happy dance while yelling "Yippee!" here)

***

Thank you so much for everyone's well wishes and prayers. We feel so grateful to have everyone's support and excitement.

Happy Wednesday, everyone!

Gender Unknown: How Mother's Intuition Has Already Failed Me

I haven't been this excited about any particular day in a long time.

It's like Christmas when I was 5, and my birthday when I was 16.

Don't tell my husband, but as of right now, today is outshining our wedding day.

Because today? Today we find out Baby's gender.

And, honestly, I'm freaking out.

You see, I'm normally a rational woman, which means I could care less what this little being is God gave us, as long as he/she is healthy and moderately happy and amenable enough to be subjected to hours and hours of mommy-and-me exercises.

I actually told a friend of mine I'd be happy and disappointed no matter what they told me; happy it's a boy and sad it's not a girl, or happy it's a girl and sad it's not a boy.

There's beauty in both, you see.

And, truthfully, I want both. I like both. And while I prefer babies and toddlers as girls - in my experience, they are the easier gender in the younger years - I shrink back in fear at the thought of teenage girls; as a former high-school teacher, I find boys way easier to handle during adolescence.

Plus, I know the second that baby's here with us, I won't be able to imagine our family any other way; girl first or boy first, this child was meant to be ours, and there will be no looking back once he/she's in my arms.

So there you have it. The rational, responsible adult in me doesn't care one lick what they tell me today. I'm gonna love this little one no matter what.

And then, there's the irrational, hormonal pregnant woman inside of me. Who, currently, is raging to get out.

You see, my husband? He wants a girl.

Desperately and wholeheartedly admits he wants a baby girl to be his first-born.

I want that for him. Real, real bad.

And my mother? She had a dream the day before I told her I was pregnant. In her dream, I was pregnant. With a baby girl.

My mother is 100-percent sure this little one is a girl. And she's always right about these things.

Not to mention that three of my closest friends, on the very same day awhile back, totally out of the blue, all called me within two hours of each other just to tell me they thought it was a girl.

As one friend said on my voice-mail, "Just letting you know that I've finally made up my mind. You're having a girl. I know it. Talk to you later!"

All my clients? Male and female? They think I'm having a girl.

My boss thinks I'm having a girl.

Heck, even the woman at the bank told me I'm having a girl.

And, more importantly, if I had to guess, I'd say I'm having a girl.

Mostly because, for my entire life, I've imagined having a little girl first.

I pictured myself holding her and dressing her and nursing her and loving her. Ever since I knew I wanted to be a mama - way before I'd even met my husband - I thought my first-born would be a girl.

And ever since this baby was conceived, I've inadvertently said "she." I've mapped out a girl's nursery in my head. I've gazed longingly at tutus and tights in the baby section as I walked by at Target. I threw up day in and day out, confirming that old wive's tale that girls make you sicker in utero.

I've just always leaned toward girl. (Don't ask me what I'm gonna do with the nursery if it's a boy. Because right now, I have absolutely no clue.)

Still, I don't trust myself. I mean, I'm not a mother yet. Is all that imagining and picturing and planning actually "mother's intuition?" What does "mother's intuition" even feel like? And how do we know it's always, 100-percent right?

I have tons of friends who believe in it. People who swear, "I knew it. I just knew she was going to be a girl."

Or those that said, "From the day I knew I was pregnant, I knew it would be a boy, and sure enough, there he was on the ultrasound."

But how? I wonder. How can you tell for sure?

After all, there are women who are wrong. Women who'd have bet their life-savings on their hunch, swear on their hunch, and then were dead-as-doornail wrongwrongwrong.

Me? I don't like to be wrong. I hate it, in fact.

Furthermore, I don't want to get my heart set on a little boy or little girl, hear the opposite today, and then experience let-down.

This is not Jeopardy; this is a precious life, boy or girl.

So all those girl hunches, all those girl-y feelings? I'm afraid of them.

I sit here writing this, and (s)he is currently punching me, and I wonder, "Are you trying to tell me something? Are you ticked off that your mama thinks you might be a girl when you're clearly all boy?"

I mean, I have these kind of psycho-thoughts.

So, yeah, I'm afraid of my supposed "mother's intuition." What does my heretofore untested gut instinct know, anyways?

It is in these situations that I rely on my friends, my family, my husband - who still won't venture a guess, by the way. I want to know what they think.

But, unfortunately, not every sign points to a baby girl in those circles, either.

One friend, one of my aunts, and my mother-in-law all swear it's a baby boy. My mother-in-law's the scary one, as she's rarely wrong about these things.

And then, just last night, I had a crazy dream that the ultrasound technician told us it was a girl, but was, in fact, wrong, and later intimated that it was actually a boy, though she refused to "confirm or deny that because she might be sued."

I awoke very confused.

Plus, I'm surrounded by friends with boys. Honest to goodness, save my sister-in-law, everyone I'm close to has sons.

Baby boys outnumber baby girls at a 10:1 ratio in my friend/family circle.

Perhaps it's catching?

And let's not forget the fact that I myself am a first-born girl. So beginner's psychology alone alludes to the fact I, of course, imagine my first-born as a girl, too, simply because that was the family structure I grew up in.

It's not mother's intuition; it's simple classic conditioning.

Sheesh. It's exhausting, just weighing all the possibilities.

Especially when, honest to goodness, all I want to do is know. Know what he/she is. Know whether I need to start sewing curtains in blue seersucker or pink floral. Know whether we get to raise a little E or a little L. Know who I'm talking to when I sing to him/her in the shower. Know who my husband is tickling when he's trying to get him/her to move for him. Know whether I can, in fact, trust my mother's intuition, or whether I should realize I've never been in control of this whole thing, anyway.

Oh, today's a big, big day.

And, I guess the good news is, no matter what gender they yell at me come 4 p.m., nothing can change that.

We're having a baby. That's the important part.

***

Luckily, we have names picked out for both genders. And everything I currently own, baby-wise, is remarkably gender neutral.

So, no matter what they tell me today, I'm ready and willing to embrace the challenge of raising that gender.

Plus, this will be our first glimpse at Baby, and I am totally stoked to see the little one making popcorn-like movements in my tummy.

So tune back in tomorrow! I promise not to keep you waiting long, though I'll probably remain remarkably silent (for me, anyways) on Twitter tonight, so as not to let the secret slip out too soon!

(Oh, and enter your guesses in the comments below. I may not trust my own mother's intuition, but I sure the heck trust blogger's intuition!)

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

Hair Risks

I'm not going to lie to you.

The week before I moved away from Florida, I went to my hair salon one more time. And I may or may not have teared up saying a final farewell to my stylist.

You see, I adored her. She cut and colored my hair to my liking; she understood what I needed, and gosh darn it, she managed my hair fears and put them all in perspective.

Honestly, I'm hard on my hair, what with all the headbands and pony-tails I inflict on it. Working in fitness means my hair gets mangled several times a day.

It's sweaty and tussled and knotty and always under-or over-washed.

And she got that.

Until that point, no one else had.

To make her even more endearing, she knew how hair-dependent I was on her, so she made sure to call around among her Invisible Hair Stylist's Network of sorts and found me a reputable salon for when I moved here to South Carolina.

Bless her heart, she even offered to call them for me and actually mailed them instructions on how to do my hair.

Like I said, she's a real gem.

Which is why it took me three months of living here before I finally made the jump.

My hair had finally become an all-out, frizz-ball, moppity, hot mess, and I couldn't put it off any longer.

So I called the salon she recommended here. And I booked an appointment.

Then I fretted about it for a while, worried sick.

What if they cut too much off? Or too little? What if they flatten it? I hate flat hair! What if they make me switch products? Oh heavens, what if they insist on using red high-lights, despite my distinctly conflicting skin tone?

And, most importantly, what if I hate it there?

Because, ladies, let's face it: A hair salon isn't just about the hair. It's about community ambience, too.

Still, I went.

On the big day, I picked out a dress, gussied myself up, and then changed four more times before finally heading out the door. (After all, here in the South, you've got to make a good first impression at a salon, just like you do on a first date. This is a relationship we're talking about here, people.)

I only got slightly lost trying to find my way to the studio, and I walked in the door right on time.

I was promptly greeted by my new hair stylist, L.

She was a tall, pretty girl, who appeared to be about my age. In fact, she looked quite a bit like my old stylist. I was instantly at ease.

Which must be why, once she got me cape-d and sitting in her chair, I had a case of what can only be described as First Salon Date Tourette's syndrome.

When she asked what I'd like do with my color, whether I'd like to just keep it the same, or branch out, I heard myself, "Oh, let's mix it up. Experiment with it. Do what you think is best."

It was like an out-of-body experience, people. I swear. I don't know what came over me. It was like I was overing above my own frizzy head, looking down at a stranger, who was stupidly offering a relative stranger her entire head of hair to play with.

Meanwhile, L was already clapping her hands with glee and mixing colors over at the sidebar without a moment's hesitation.

I continued to sit there, dying, worried I'd just committed the world's largest cardinal hair salon sin.

My fears were only further confirmed after I Tweeted what I'd done, only to be met with shock and awe. Honestly, I could hear y'all screaming at me from all over the country, sitting there in my little hair chair.

Still, it was too late. The damage had been done. The colors had been mixed.

And L was applying them to my head with a fervor which I'd never seen.

I tried to keep up polite conversation while silently repeating to myself "It's just hair. It's just hair. It's just hair! Oh God, please don't let her ruin my hair!"

Which is why it was even more of a miracle that I heard L at all.

She was telling me how she'd come to the area and how she'd started doing hair, when she mentioned, in passing how old she was.

Or, rather, how old she wasn't.

"I'm 19, so I've haven't lived away from home for every long," she said, cheerfully.

She was all of 19 years old, people.

19!

It took all I had not to whip off my cape right there, grab the color brush and foil with both my hands, and yell at her, "Get away from my scalp, you noob!"

Not that I'm exactly on old lady myself. And not that hair-color is like brain surgery. I honestly don't think you have to have 20+ years experience behind the scissors if you want to cut my hair.

But she was just 19 - 19! She was still in high school when I was teaching high school.

And she was dying my hair six different colors and wielding scissors near my ears!

Dear heavens, I about fainted.

The whisper in my brain had become a dull roar, screaming, "Oh Lord, I'm a good person! I don't deserve to be totally heinous! Please don't let her ruin my hair!"

The upside was that all my worrying managed to let the coloring process fly by. Before I knew it, she was leading me to a hair-washing station.

I skittered along, convinced that this dye needed to come off ASAP, when she informed me that my color treatment came with - get this - a complimentary hand, arm, feet, neck, back, and scalp massage.

You could of died my hair purple at that moment, and I wouldn't have cared. She had me at "complimentary." And she quieted the rest of my inner monologue, too, while she rubbed away at my achy body.

I could have cared less if she was 12. (Other than the fact that I'm sure that breaks multiple child labor laws.)

Which is why I was so startled that, after my partial massage and shampoo, First Salon Date Tourette's syndrome struck again.

With my hair all wet and flat, she asked me if I'd like to add a gradual angle to my cut.

And, though I'd never thought of it before and had simply admired it from afar on other, more hip friends of mine, I actually said yes.

I hadn't even seen the color yet, and I'd given her another liberty.

I was walking advertisement for "Just Say to No." I was caving into a 19 year old's pressure like nobody's business. I was taking risks right and left. I was sky-diving without a back-up parachute, and there was nobody who could stop me.

As my massage coma wore off, I couldn't help repeating to myself, "Stupid stupid stupid."

There I was, letting practically a teenager take multiple risks with my locks. I couldn't believe myself.

I sat frozen through the haircut, willing her to finish and blowdry the thing already so I could see the results and figure out how to salvage them.

Thirty minutes later, we were there.

And I waited with bated breath and a quivering heart as she spun me around to check myself out.

Can you believe it, but I actually gasped aloud? I even started talking to myself, muttering, "This is good. Very, very good. I can't believe it, but I love it."

The girl did good, my friends.

Wanna see?
Granted, these photos were taken a good five hours later, so some of the oomph had fallen, but you get the picture.

The 19 year old had not rendered me red-headed and/or bald head.

All was right in my world.

My head was happy.

And let's not forget that massage, too.

L received a big tip that day. The salon got me to book a second appointment.

And I learned, once and for all, to have a little faith in the youth of today and the Invisible Hair Stylist's Network.

***

I know I sound like the world's most vain person here. But I couldn't have been more thrilled at how it turned out, all things considering.

Thanks for humoring my hysteria once again, my friends. And, as always, thank you for not judging me.

Happy Tuesday everyone!