[Author’s Note #1: This story is the natural follow-on to Faith is the Substance of Things Hoped For and Somewhere Over the Rainbow, but doesn’t necessitate the prior reading of either piece.]
[Author’s Note #2: This is a relatively short post — its only goal is to tell the story of discovering our fourth baby’s sex. A complete birth story will arrive in due time, so I’ll do my best to conceal the finer plot points of that upcoming piece.]
Once upon a time, a man named Joseph left Bohemia for the United States. Once there, he met a woman named Anna and fell in love. The two were soon married and had five children who survived to adulthood.
Notably, all but one of them was male.
The second-oldest son also married a woman named Anna. They had a son who had a son who had a son who had a son who had a son named Borealis — who shares the same last name as his great-great-great-great grandfather, Joseph.
In short: my husband’s paternal line is dominated by males — males who, incidentally, kept extremely detailed genealogical records.
In contrast, my maternal line has been a bit more lackadaisical about record-keeping — probably because none of us even share a last name.
Sometime in the early 1900s, a woman in Slovakia had a daughter who later immigrated through Ellis Island as a newly-wed. That daughter went on to have a daughter who had a daughter who had a daughter who had a daughter named Australis — who will likely shed her maiden name in her early twenties. (That is, if she’s anything like me, or my mother, or her mother, or her mother before her — you get the picture.) Without many males, our maiden names have mostly died out.
In short: my daughter was born into a family that is monopolized by women.
Many clans are like that — they seem to have “strong genes” for one sex or the other. And, while many of those situations are just random manifestations of the genetic lottery, it’s hard not to feel like it’s a competition — at least, it’s hard for *me* not to feel like it’s a competition.
After all, with my third child gone, Orientalis is the tie-breaker.
It’s an odd thing — expecting a stranger baby. You have to simultaneously hold two contradictory opinions: 1) the baby is a boy, and 2) the baby is a girl. Ideally, you prepare for each eventuality… with the knowledge that one of those possibilities will never materialize.
Maintaining this cognitive dissonance became increasingly difficult for me over the past month — and especially since posting Somewhere Over the Rainbow. With Orientalis’s existence finally public knowledge, I allowed myself to imagine this still-unknown fourth child.
Two complete avatars came to life in my mind: a male Orientalis, and a female Orientalis. Somehow, both outcomes seemed inevitable. When I set out “going home” outfits (or, more accurately, “staying home” outfits), I pictured my newborn wearing both the green pajamas and the pink nightgown. (Not at the same time, of course.) It seemed impossible that I’d soon be putting away one set of newborn clothes — for good.
Of course, I’d always known this day would come. Orientalis would wear one set of hand-me-downs, and the other set would be dispersed to consignment, friends, and thrift. In fact, even as Australis outgrew her earliest newborn clothes — more than two years ago — I knew that we might never use them again. My third child was supposed wear Bo’s clothes, and my fourth child might, too.
In short: I knew that Australis might be my only daughter — and, at the time, I fervently hoped for that outcome.
But, two years had affected a marked change in our family. Most significantly, Occidentalis had never worn any clothes. The boy clothes intended for him remained neatly folded in storage, potentially waiting for one more wearer — or not.
By the time I went into labor, I thought the latter more likely.
I had expected that I’d have no restraint in finding out Ori’s sex — that I’d be spreading those baby legs the instant my child emerged.
But then, Orientalis immediately began to wail, and I just wanted to comfort and protect my child. I curled the warm, wet bundle against my chest and soothed, “Ori! Ori, it’s ok! I’m right here, baby. You’re alright.”
The baby’s crying lessened, and some swaddling towels appeared out of nowhere. Things calmed down — but only for a moment. I had requested a proactive, post-delivery administration of Pitocin — since, you know, I’d already tried the almost-bleeding-out thing. (Twice.)
However, the drug didn’t immediately staunch my bleeding to a sufficient extent. The midwife moved me into the bathtub so she could better track the blood loss — and, eventually, administer Cytotec. (For the record — not better the second time.)
It was a bit surreal to hold my child but not know its sex — like I truly was cradling a stranger. But it was enough, at the moment, to know that Ori was alive, and safe, and in my arms. I’d figure out the other stuff eventually.
“Eventually” came sooner than later — because Taylor could only wait so long. (Somehow, I don’t think he’d have been quite so flippant if *he* had been the one hemorrhaging. Maybe that’s just my opinion, though.)
Kneeling besides the tub, he gently lifted a towel off of Orientalis and moved aside my hand.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
My husband looked up. “Do you have a final guess? Ori is a…?”
Earlier that afternoon, I had claimed that I wouldn’t be surprised either way — boy or girl. But now, as I held Orientalis in my arms, I was certain that I had a new daughter.
I smiled and finished the prompt. “Girl.”
Taylor immediately countered, “I see a big set of baby balls down here.”
A boy. Orientalis was a boy.
I hadn’t thought I’d be so surprised. After all, at the midway point of our pregnancy, I’d thought that Ori was a boy — and goodness knows that everyone else thought so, too.
And yet, somehow, in the final weeks of gestation, my mind had changed — and, apparently, changed quite firmly.
“Check again,” I ordered.
Taylor peeked once more, while the photographer gently confirmed, “Yeah, he’s for sure a boy.”
My husband tipped up my son’s bottom — and indeed, I needed only a split second’s glance.
In an instant, one of my mental avatars ceased to exist. There was no female Orientalis — and, in fact, there never had been.
The pink nightgown would be used one day — but not by us. The flowery pajamas, the bows, the sparkles… they were all destined for exactly one girl in my family: Australis, my only daughter.
It was hard to reconcile with this jarring realization. Likely, though, I would’ve had a similar experience in the reverse situation. To put it pretentiously, this was a Schrödinger’s cat situation: before Taylor checked our baby’s bottom, both the female and male versions of Orientalis existed. Afterward, only one remained.
Either way, I was losing an imaginary child; I had simply guessed the wrong one. Regardless, I needed to lay aside the fictitious baby and embrace the real one before me.
“Aza’s gonna be bummed,” I mumbled as I pulled Orientalis in for a snuggle. Then, louder, I asked, “Can someone ask my mom to keep them up for a bit longer? Until they can meet their sibling — uh, their brother?”
The assistant midwife nodded. “They’re waiting. We need to get you cleaned up first.”
The head midwife agreed. “Yeah. Let’s get your bleeding under control, and then we can get you into bed. They shouldn’t see you like this.”
Nearly forty minutes later, I was finally settled into bed and ready to receive my two oldest kids.
It was nearly an hour past Bo and Aza’s bedtime — but even so, excitement animated their steps as they raced across the hall into my room. Taylor helped them onto the bed, where they instantly settled into their respective default postures: Bo, impassive and observational; Aza, dramatic and involved.
My oldest son sat beside me and scrutinized his new little sibling. His sister, in contrast, leaned against me and carefully stroked the baby’s head.
I took a deep breath, then primed the conversation. “Aza, did you think that Ori would be a brother or a sister?”
“A sister,” was her immediate response — an answer echoed by Bo.
I smiled sardonically, then gently replied, “Yeah, I thought so too.” I gave my oldest son a squeeze, then continued, “But Ori is actually a brother.”
Bo’s brow immediately furrowed. “Ori is a brother,” he repeated carefully.
Aza, meanwhile, seemed shockingly unfazed. “Ori has boy parts,” she concluded immediately.
“Yep,” Taylor confirmed. “Ori has a penis, like Bo.”
My daughter took this revelation shockingly in stride. She laid herself across the baby — who, at the time, wasn’t even crying — and soothed, “It’s ok, Ori! You’re alright! You’re a little brother.”
Bo, in contrast, was still processing my revelation. “I had thought that Ori would be a girl, but Ori is actually a boy.”
I gave him another squeeze. “I know, buddy. I thought that Ori was a girl, too — but Ori is a boy, and Ori will wear your old shoes, not Aza’s.”
Bo thought for a few seconds, then amended, “Well, first I thought Ori was a boy. But then, I thought Ori was a girl. But Ori is actually a boy.”
I grinned at him. “So you were actually right the first time!”
This seemed to encourage my son. He straightened up and smiled softly at his little brother.
“And God knew all along,” I murmured quietly.
I watched Bo place a gentle kiss on his brother’s head and forcibly reminded myself of what I said at the end of Somewhere Over the Rainbow.
God has picked the perfect child for our family. Ori is the exact child that He wants us to have.
My mother had been giving the kids some space to meet their new sibling, but now she approached the bed as well. “He’s a boy!” she said triumphantly — because, more than anyone, my mother had always believed this child to be male.
“Aza won’t have a sister,” I responded sadly.
“Does it look like she cares?” she laughed, gesturing to my daughter.
Aza still leaned over Ori, and was now softly singing her special lullaby — subbing in his name for hers.
“Ori — Ori baby. He’s my baby — my little Ori.”
I turned back. “Uh, apparently not.”
“No. She’s totally in love.”
“But, like, *I* wanted her to have a sister, too — like I’ve always wanted.”
My mother shrugged. “This way, she’ll be the only girl. She’ll be so spoiled.”
“She’s already spoiled!”
“Exactly. She won’t have to share the girl spotlight.”
I looked down at Orientalis. “I guess not.”
My mother gave me and the baby quick kisses, then said, “I have to get the kids in bed.”
I nodded. “Ok, kids, give your brother a kiss.”
Aza threw her arms around Ori and declared, “I love you, Ori!”
I looked over at Bo, who primly remarked, “I do not want to give him a kiss.”
I poked him in the side. “Give your brother a kiss.”
My oldest gave me a smirk, then kissed his brother and muttered, “I love you, Ori.”
And with that, my two oldest were off to sleep — but I still held my youngest.
Taylor slid into bed beside me and kissed my temple. I leaned against him and looked down at our son.
“I guess your side of the family won,” I admitted. I had preemptively written the introduction to this story days before; now, it would have a conclusion, too.
Taylor grinned. “I guess so.”
For a while, I watched my husband watch our baby. The pride on his face was etched so plainly that I wondered how I hadn’t seen it before. Taylor might not have known that he wanted another son — but clearly, he had.
I smiled softly. This was the child that God chose for us.
“Welcome to the family, Orientalis,” I whispered. And then, I spoke aloud the nickname we’d chosen for a boy.
“Welcome, Rhys.”
[Author’s Note: We’ll see which nickname ends up sticking.
Our fourth child has been called “Ori” for so long — but the name, for me, was always a placeholder. It was a unisex way to talk about a stranger.
Now, however, it’s not a stranger before me: it’s my son — albeit, a son that I don’t yet know very well. When I do get to know him, though, I’d like it to be as “Rhys”.
A new name for a new start.]