Wee on the toilet seat

L makes me promise that he and N will be the first kids, no, the first of everyone to find out the sex of our baby after Pete and I find out. N says he wants a sister, but he also has two toy penguins he has renamed The Brothers since he found out I’m pregnant.

‘Do you know what that is?’ the obstetrician asks, ultrasound pressing through warm gel on my belly. Pete holds my hand, we’re staring at the screen together.

A pocket for a vagina, I think, my face cracking. Tell me it’s a pocket for a vagina, we have a girl’s name picked out already. And otherwise I’m outnumbered four to one. Years of wee on the toilet seat, vomit and wee and poo jokes, watching with horrormusement as they play sausage man in the bath with tortured foreskins. These things are ahead of me. 

‘Here are his legs, and in between is his scrotum, and this here is his penis, I’m 99.5% sure,’ she says, and continues her investigation of his body parts, from his thigh bones to his shins, his little feet with ten toes, footprints clear as if they were made in damp sand. 

Beach holidays with three little boys. Camping, brushing our teeth under the stars. Starting school with words or sport or music at his disposal, first friendships, sending a letter to his grandparents, asking me about death and gods and cats, the first girl who has a crush on him, his voice breaking, eating everything in the pantry with his brothers before we get home from work, pimples, practical jokes, a couple of mates and their smelly socks, the first girl or guy who breaks his heart, a midnight curfew, learning to drive, calling Pete to pick him up drunk from somewhere random at 2am, smoking joints, a conversation with a gorgeous feminist who blows his tiny mind. Travelling, my son somewhere else in the world calling me to say hi, to ask for more money, coming home, moving out, eating cheese on toast for three months. Falling in love. Dropping in to eat soup with us and telling us he’s met this girl or guy. Getting not-married or married, having his own babies. My son. My son. My son. 

Here comes the son, do do do do. Here comes the son, and I say, it’s alright. 

We stop in at the primary school on the way home and go to reception, ask for L to come up to see us because we can’t wait until after school. Two good mates are with him … I whisper you’re going to have another little brother in his ear and he smiles that gentle, centred smile. Doesn’t get excited, doesn’t seem disappointed, just takes it in. His mates asks what the secret is, and I tell them it’s not the hamburger baby they were speculating about on Saturday after AusKick. 

‘A double big brother,’ he tells me later as he ties the shoelaces on his soccer boots into a double knot, before realising he’s still in his jeans and has to take the boots off to put his soccer shorts on. I taught him on Saturday morning to tie his shoelaces. You should have seen the look of triumph on his face. You should have seen the tears in my eyes. Pregnancy hormones? Maybe. Gosh they’re good though.