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Here I am, half-way through my pregnancy, and not writing about it at all.  Is it just the nature of a second pregnancy, that you are too busy and bored because you’ve done it all before to obsess about every little thing like you did the first time around? Or is it just me? Why do I even ask that question, because I know it’s not just me.  Second (third, fourth, etc) kids always get the shaft when it comes to, well, just about everything. I myself am a second kid and have seen it first hand. There are 400,000 pictures of my older sister in a photo album and maybe 40 of me (I shouldn’t feel too bad, however, because there are only like 4 of my kid brother – the FOURTH kid, poor guy). Anyway, last pregnancy I knew practically up-to-the-minute stats on how big, how old, how cute my baby was and what precisely was happening with her development. This time I’m like “uhhhh… don’t you have that information on your computer?” when the check-out person at my doctor’s office asks me how far along I am. No really. She had to look it up. I know my due date, but that’s probably only because it’s my brother’s birthday (and two days before my own birthday).

But today was an important day, and thus deserves some blogging. For today, my lovelies, we found out the sex of our baby! Did you know, by the way, that some people have giant gender-reveal parties (which, by the way, is incorrect because it’s not actually a gender reveal but a sex reveal, but I won’t get started on the difference between gender and sex because it would exhaust me (and bore you) and my point would get lost)? I only know this because I am currently on a Pinterest bender (which is another reason I haven’t been blogging, by the way, so I shouldn’t blame it all on my ho-hum attitude toward the second baby). They throw parties akin to a frickin’ baby shower whereupon they force all of their friends/family to come celebrate with them whilst they reveal in some vastly creative way (i.e. by showering said friends/family with pink or blue confetti or balloons) if their little bundle has a ding dong or a hoohaw. I cannot express to you, because there aren’t the words, how much this disgusts me (it’s almost as much as the whole Elf-on-the-Shelf phenomenon, but not quite (seriously people, that little fucker is creepy! And how far are you willing to go to perpetuate the Santa Claus lie? Is it not enough that a fat, jolly man can see everything your kids are doing? He has to send an elf-spy? Okay, I’ve gone and digressed again, sorry)). No offense if you had a big giant party to tell your kinfolk if you were having a little Jane or a little Johnny, but GEEZUM CROW how do you have that much time and energy on your hands? I, in case you were wondering, didn’t even call my family members to tell them. I texted the immediates and then Facebook-announced it to everyone else. Which I know, could also be considered disgusting and lame because really, how revolting is social media? But whatever. At least you don’t have to come to my house and watch me release pink or blue doves into the air to tell you what we’re having. You just have to read it on my blog which means you can do it while you’re wearing pajama pants and eating Cheetos.

But before I tell you, I’m going to digress a little. Surprised? I thought not. This digression, though, is a bit more serious.  I didn’t realize until this morning as I was getting ready to head to the sonogram how nervous I actually was about this whole thing.  With Louisa, this was the sonogram where we found out she is missing a hand and while now everything is fine, she is perfect, and I barely even think about it (except at certain times where I watch her trying to do something that is difficult with one hand or I catch her looking at both of her hands quizzically as if trying to figure out why one is different and then, oh THEN does my heart break just a little as I wonder how I will answer her questions when she inevitably has them, but that dear readers, is a whole different blog post), it was a pretty traumatizing day. Finding out, telling people, mourning, wondering if she would be okay. Yegads. So this morning when my Dad showed up to watch Louisa so that Jason could go with me (because DAMNED if I was going to go by myself and find out something equally traumatizing (and also, a Daddy should get to see and find out too)) and asked “are you excited?”, I couldn’t really answer. Because while yes, OF COURSE, I was excited, I was mostly just crossing my fingers and really glad the whole thing would be over soon. And up until the point where the sonographer had counted all the hands/feet/toes/fingers/heads/stomachs/hearts and we knew all the parts were there, I didn’t care what the private part was. Boy, girl – whatever, dude – just tell me everything is fine. And it was. And we were relieved.

And then she said “there’s the little peepee!” which, for me, broke the tension and made me laugh because first of all, she had an accent and it was funny to hear her say peepee, and second of all SHE SAID PEEPEE. She’s a medical professional and couldn’t even call it a penis. I found that highly amusing. But anyway, he has a peepee. We’re having a boy. And my husband cried. And I realized that I’m really glad we’re having a boy. Although, I think I would have been equally glad if we were having a girl because either way it will be fun.  But also scary as hell because you guys, I’m going to have two kids. But now that I know he’s a boy and that everything is fine (well, everything with HIM is fine – I have a stupid short cervix again like I did last time, which means I have to go to the bloody high-risk pregnancy doctor again but whatever, I’m sure it will just mean an obnoxious amount of extra doctor visits and then nothing will be wrong), I’m getting super excited to see/hold/snuggle with my little baby boy and that I have the chance to raise both a son and a daughter. I am one lucky chic, y’all.