A post popped up on my memories on Facebook recently.
The instant I read it all of the feelings I felt at this time came flooding back and it filled me with a blend of anger and sadness. My husband and I anticipated some comments about having three boys, but honestly we were bombarded with the opinions of friends, family and randoms in the street about not having a daughter.
Image via Facebook
This was four years ago and I remember the day so vividly as if it were yesterday. I had a beautiful new baby boy, obviously my third, and I’d had two solid weeks of comments and questions about the gender of my little miracle (not to mention raging with new baby hormones).
The last comment that came before my post was from a lovely woman with two boys of her own who was very vocal about her own desire to have a girl. She absolutely meant no harm, but her words were brutal.
I remember proudly showing him off with a big, goofy grin from ear to ear when she said, “did your heart just break when they said it was another boy?”.
Talk about a slap in the face. My heart did break when she made that comment. I don’t think I even spoke, I really can’t recall if I said anything back but I remember being devastated that she could consider my beautiful boy anything less than perfect.
To cut an extremely long story short, one that I will inevitably get to on this blog, Hugh ended up being one very sick little boy. A few days after that annoyingly harsh comment Hugh went into heart failure at three weeks old, his heart rate kept going into extremely fast rhythms (SVTs) and we nearly lost him. As in he had possibly an hour or two to live.
It’s a long story, and I’m trying to keep to the point so I wont unravel that one yet.
The sadness came when I realised after seeing and hearing of the disappointment my beautiful boy could bring to some of the people in our lives, sometimes to complete strangers, my boy was now lying in a tiny bed with twelve people trying to save his tiny body from dying (my husband counted them, I just wailed).