I wasn’t prepared for a Genevieve

Originally published Nov. 18, 2016, in the Times Herald-Record of Middletown, N.Y.

“You’re all going to have girls, and then you’ll know how it feels.”

My mom first told me that when I was in kindergarten. As a kid she was tasked with caring for her four brothers and three sisters, so she learned quickly that girls are tough, complicated and smart. And boys — and the world at large — don’t understand girls.

Mom always wanted a girl. It meant molding someone in her likeness while also showing Dad — and the world at large — who was boss.

Naturally she had a boy. Then another boy. Then a third boy. Then, finally, a fourth boy.

In response we acted extremely boyish around her, so she hexed us by telling us we were all going to have girls, and then we would know how it feels.

My oldest brother has two girls. Brother №2 has a girl.

And now I have a child, and as our midwife twisted it out of Sarah, rubbed it quickly and held it to the sky for me to see, it was up to me to put an identity to this human. All this time it was an “it” or “baby” or “baby Malcolm.” It didn’t have a name or label; it was just there. Now I had to give it an identity, one that would either send it on a smoother path to upward mobility or an arduous road of proving itself against the other sex.

I scanned the child, found the key to its identity, and all at once belted out to the room:

“It’s … a girl?”

Initially I questioned it because everyone assumed we were having a boy. All the old wives’ tales lined up. The baby had been stubbornly fidgeting in the womb for weeks. And, honestly, it just felt like a boy. So I was surprised. But it was more than that.

I started to condition myself for a boy. Our boy name was Hudson, and I had grown more accustomed with saying it than Genevieve. I began imagining taking a boy to daycare; I started hearing a boy cry and seeing a boy face. I prepared myself for the influx of blue clothes and sports clothes we were about to receive from relatives. I even advocated for a floral-print sweatshirt while shopping at Carter’s, because “I don’t care if it’s a boy … he can wear flowers.”

In an instant it all changed. Hudson was Genevieve. She had a girl cry and a girl face (although she apparently has my face). And in the days following her birth we received several pink outfits, many with flowers or cupcakes, or the word “princess” scribbled on the chest.

A few days ago we went back to Carter’s to exchange a few of the many 0–3-month outfits we had for 3–6- and 6–9-month outfits. We spent 25 minutes scouring the girls’ side for something we liked, but almost everything was pink, or had flowers, cupcakes, or the word “princess” scribbled on the chest.

Then we went to the boys’ side. There were cute penguin and bear outfits. Striped shirts. “Little explorer” onesies. Monsters and aliens, too.

“Yup,” I thought as we grabbed those hangers and put back the flowers and cupcakes, “I know how it feels already.”