Tiny t-shirts, little socks
rattles, bibs, and baby blocks
we're excited, it's very true,
that our baby will be wearing...
whatever color she darn well wants to!
(I realize it's saccharine. Deal with it.)
That's right! We've known for a little over a week and have been keeping it very much on the down-low. We told immediate family but asked them to keep it to themselves as well, because, well... we just wanted to have something kind of to ourselves for a while. So little about pregnancy/babies is allowed to or encouraged to be private, it feels like; we're supposed to share every detail with the world, or at least with Facebook and Instagram.
Well, right here and right now, I'd like to make a vow to those I love and to my readers here: you will never, ever, ever hear me talk about my childbirth in anything but the vaguest terms. I will never regale the internet at large with stories about gross things my baby did. I realize you don't care what's in my eventual baby's diaper today.
Oh, no. Those will never be the stories I tell you here.
I'm going to continue boring you to sleep with my current stories about my entirely not-traumatic childhood.
So I hope you like stories about cows, because I'm gonna figure out how to tell you more stories about cows.
So, the Wee Baby Faulk is a girl. Or will be. Or is. Her chromosomes are anyway, so that's something. Now I have to deal with the weirdest part of having a girl; how to convince everyone please dear god, whatever you do don't buy her anything pink. Well, until she can choose the color for herself. Once she can successfully point at that frilly pink dress she can wear it and I will buy it and I will grit my teeth and smile, but until then I'm the fashion stylist in this house and, spoiler alert; I'm not super girly.
I know. You're shocked. But it's true.
I hate pink.
... and I'm having a girl.
God help us all.