Kids in the Capital City
Kids in the Capital City: We're gonna need a bigger minivan
The concept of having a second child was a hot topic in the Kinnison house, one that didn’t exactly come with easy conversations. Growing up an only child, I’ve known since I was wee that when the time came for kids, I wanted two. My husband was a different story.
Sure, my parents let me have friends over all the time. Vacations typically involved bringing a friend. It wasn’t a bad way to grow up. But flash forward 30 years, and it’s a bit of a different story. I have two half-sisters, and we're very close. But with a decade-plus between us, the relationship we had when I was a child was different. They humored me and shared Captain Crunch, but we didn’t exactly play dolls together.
When my father died six years ago, we mourned together. They lost their dad too, of course, but after the funeral, they went home to the West Coast, to their own lives, families, and mother. My own mom and I were left to navigate the situation alone, figuring out what it meant to be the last Floyds standing. That’s when I really learned that my future child needed a forever buddy.
Don’t get me wrong — I’m happy to be my mom's "person," but sometimes life gets busy, and she’d appreciate another kid to chat with or go to Marshall’s. (She loves Marshall’s).
So, as our son approached two, I lobbied my husband to make it happen. And … life found a way.
That’s right, Kinnison, party of four coming October 2019. (Just kidding, we’ll never be able to go to a restaurant again.)
Like any “#boymom,” I hoped desperately for a girl, and even did the early genetic testing to ease my mind, certain that I be buying bows, dresses, and feminist T-shirts until the cows came home.
And then, the phone rang. “It’s a ... boy,” the nurse exclaimed.
I’m not proud to admit it, but I cried. I had so perfectly envisioned the future with our little boy/girl duo (plus an extra shot of estrogen to this testosterone den — even the dog is a male), that it was a shock to me to process that it didn't work out that way.
I texted friends and was bombarded with both excitement and support. “Congratulations! It’s okay to be sad.” It was so refreshing to hear that so many in my network could relate. I have a few friends with buns in the oven at the moment, and several admitted that finding out the sex of their child is a disappointment they're eliminating completely. When that baby comes out, no matter the parts, you’re going to love it unconditionally. So why set yourself up for any amount of disappointment?
I promise I’m not a monster. Nor are my friends. I will love my new son wholeheartedly. And I know that giving my son a brother means he’s getting a pal for life. (Or maybe not. I’ll let them work that out.) We have the clothes, we have the cars (oh, the cars), but we won’t have the maxi pads. It’s going to be great. I’ll just need to schedule some me time … in about five years or so.
And don’t worry — he’s still getting a feminist T-shirt.