When you hear what I’m about to talk about, your reaction might be, “Wow. Harsh.” I quote Jay-Z, mostly in jest. The truth of the matter is, I REALLY wanted my baby to be a boy.

I’ve said before that I go through phases of journaling like crazy. I kept every one, and sometimes read them to see what I was thinking and feeling, and to see how things have changed in my life. I came across a journal from early 2008 recently and started reading. In between the regular work complaints and random gig stories I found something very interesting. I was writing about the possibility of kids and said, “I can really see myself with a little boy.” This was before my dear nephew came into the world in October of 2008, who solidified that feeling for me. But there it was on paper… one of those things you write down that even surprises yourself.

When we found out I was pregnant, my husband and I were in total agreement- we wanted a boy. The more we talked about it, the more scared I got that it wasn’t a boy. While we had a name picked out for a boy, I couldn’t even think of one for a girl. Nothing was jumping out at me. I already felt guilty for thinking things like, “What if it’s a girl??” as if that was some sort of death sentence! I REALLY wanted a boy. And let me say, it’s not that I’m against girls, I just didn’t want to have one first.

I had to do a little self investigation as to why I felt so strongly about it. I suppose mostly it has to do with the fact that that is how I was raised. In my family, it’s boy, girl, boy, girl. In my extended family, my dad is one of 12. Their family started off with a boy, who sadly passed away at the age of 5. Of the remaining 11, 8 of them had boys first. Maybe it’s just a family thing? Or could it be that growing up with an older brother and best friends who were boys set a precedent of comfort around males for me, never truly feeling like one of the girls. While I rebelled in middle school and tried to turn around the tomboy thing by hanging out with chicks and going to mall and whatnot, I definitely fell back into the comfort zone of hanging with the guys, where there seemed to be no pressure.  There was less drama (ok a LITTLE less drama) but at least I understood it.  This spilled over into my adult life- I’ve been in many bands over the last 20 years and have mostly been the only girl within 100 feet. Hanging with the guys is a part of life and I’m glad my husband is understanding of that. Not many men are.

Now it’s not to say I haven’t had or don’t have girlfriends. Funny- many were younger sisters themselves, and it was as if we had a sacred bond that only little sisters can understand. The Little Sisters of Brothers Club. We didn’t have to explain much to each other to be understood, it was already there. The sisters with younger brothers had an understanding as well. Interestingly, the friends who most fascinated me were the all-girl families. I loved visiting their boy-free houses, as if it was some sort of scientific reconnaissance mission. These homes had a completely different feel and outlook. Strange things were afoot. We could play/dance/act/sing freely without having to lock some boy out of the room. A tease-free environment- a totally different way of life. They were fun places to visit, but home is where the teasing is. I think it was a learning experience for all involved. I remember teaching my girlfriend how to spit, while she taught me how to put on mascara.

But back to the story at hand. The time came for the big sonogram- the one where you find out the sex. We weren’t going to find out, but at the last minute, we just had to. I couldn’t not know. Once the sonogram tech said she could tell us 10 seconds into the procedure, my husband said, “It’s got to be a boy, because that was awfully quick.” She said, “I don’t know.. I’m good!” We decided right then and there to confirm, and there it was…. “It’s a boy!” she said, and I heard myself rejoice, “THANK GOD!!” haha… how’s that for a reaction?

So, like in Go Fish, “I got what I wanted.” I was so much more relieved about EVERYTHING just knowing.

Now that people are starting to ask me if I know what I’m having, I say, “It’s a boy.” I’ve had a lot of mixed reactions. Some people are genuinely happy, but most people assume I wanted a girl, which is so funny to me. They ask apprehensively, “Is that what you wanted?” Or a disappointed, “Ohhhh.” I laugh and say either, “It’s ok… I wanted a boy!” or, in more relaxed situations, you know, the Jay-Z line- “I got 99 problems but a bitch ain’t one.”

So I have this upcoming recording gig for a Prog project, or “progject” as I like to say. I got an email the other day from the writer/artist/engineer with a game plan and possible dates. He wants to get me in soon as I’m expecting. I have to say these music guys have really been very supportive of my… ahem… condition. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this. I just assumed they’d all write me off. “She’s done.” they’d say. But they’ve all surprised me. I have agents trying to be all careful booking me, padding time before and after I’m due. I guess that’s a good thing. I envision myself playing til the bitter end, maybe even going into labor on stage. While it’s thoughtful, I realize it’s possible that maybe they are just trying to avoid a scene.

But back to the progject at hand. This new recording is something that’s going to be pressed to vinyl, which is exciting for me as I never thought I’d ever be on an actual RECORD. I missed the boat on that one, due to the timing and placement of my musical life. We started as kids on homemade “demo tapes” in the 80’s and  finally graduated to CDs. It was really something to be on a CD. Now that’s nothin’. It’s cooler now to just have a file on iTunes. Hard to even think about, as it was a dream as a kid to make “an album”.  A real record with a cool album cover and all the lyrics inside, intertwined with pictures and artwork. An mp3 isn’t anything you can hold in your hand, or see for that matter. Technology really weirds me out. If I even start to try to figure it out, insanity starts to kick in. How does it all work? My mind wanders to Tron-like silliness and the thought is gone.

At any rate, I’m keeping busy at 6 months- just as I planned. Got the recording gig, a big St. Patrick’s Day gig way far in away in Virginia… not to mention a slew of my own songs that have needed attention for much too long now. I feel like time is running out. I won’t be so footloose and fancy free anymore- no running out to the studio at 8pm on weeknight and staying til all hours. I have to get this all in while I can.

It is not easy working with the public when someone is inside of you, kicking unidentifiable inner body parts you didn’t even know you had. Trying to come up with solutions to problems for customers when you are pretty sure your “craw” has just been located by a foot (or hand) is near impossible. When I wasn’t showing, this was a real problem. I was “that one”. The one you didn’t want helping you. “I’ll wait for so-and-so.” Fine. Good. Wait for so-and-so. I’ve got my own problems, namely the future UFC fighter that’s already training 10 hours a day in my soccer ball sized uterus!

It really took forever for me to pop out. 5 1/2 months and nobody even asked if I was pregnant. Now, I’m not complaining. I was so worried with my height (I’m 5’1) that I was just going to explode in the weight department. Luckily, so far this has not been the case. But once I started to show, I took to wearing very obvious maternity clothes at work. This is an absolute ploy on my part. People need to know what they are dealing with. I’m not some moseying dummy, I’m just pregnant.

Usually, it is not an easy feat to deal with the public day in and day out.  Now that I’m showing, things have changed. It’s actually been a kind of a nice talking point. Most everyone seems to be so happy for me and can’t wait to ask me a million questions, and share their experiences. So far this is not annoying for me. I know many pregnant women complain about the intrusion and the unwanted advice, but I welcome it.

Of course being me, things had to get weird. Just yesterday I had an African woman with a very thick accent throwing out blessings like beads at Mardi Gras, touching my stomach and rejoicing. “GOD BLESS YOU! GOD BLESS YOU! GOD BLESS YOU!” each time touching my belly. While kind of sweet, I have to say, it was a little awkward.