Boy/Girl

It’s 7:03am as I start writing this, and I’m currently waiting for my second train of the day. Off to Didcot today!

I’m running low on fumes already. Having put myself to bed at 9:45pm last night, I genuinely planned to be well rested going into today’s session at the office but, alas, I chose to start putting my first pieces of writing on this website, and now I’m running on less than four hours sleep, and am crying out for my bed again.

I enjoyed writing what I did, last night. I set a tone, and whilst it wasn’t quite the tone I was expecting to adopt, it was nice to share. It sure as hell kept me awake afterwards anyway, all sorts of thoughts about my impending fatherhood running through my mind.

In case you missed my brief mention of it in my last entry, I do indeed know the gender of my little baby, and have done for roughly five weeks. I’m having a boy.

A boy.

Crazy, huh?

Katie always stated that she didn’t mind if we were having a boy or girl, and that she was just so happy to even be having it in the first place. But, I know better, and I’m sure she had a preference, whether she admits it or not – one day I’ll find out what it was!

Me? I wanted a boy. In fact, I’ve always wanted a boy. I have some legitimate reasons for that too.

Number one, I am the oldest of my parents three children, and I believe they say that we often want to recreate our own sibling set up, when having children ourselves? For me, having a son first was the dream scenario.

Another reason for wanting a boy? I’m a boy! I might be closer to 30 than I am 29, but I still play PS4, watch superhero movies, and generally have the same immature sense of humour that I did as a teenager, so raising a boy always seemed much easier to me on paper.

Reason three, for wanting a boy? I was nearly 12 years old when my second (and final!) sister was born. Having been so involved in raising her, due to my age at the time, I guess I’d mentally ticked off the box for raising a little girl and wanted to try raising a little boy. That “little girl”, by the way, is now almost 18. Fun fact: my baby was actually originally due to be born on her 18th birthday. Could still happen, but it’s less likely now!

My final reason, and perhaps the biggest one of all, is that I wanted my family name to continue. Anyone who knows me, knows I’m not a big family guy, so it would probably be a surprise to them that I’m so passionate about carrying on my family surname.

I don’t know an awful lot about my family lineage. Heck, all of my grandparents had died before I even hit 13.5 years old (Sept 1999 saw both my grandmothers die, in fact, and was a truly rubbish month as a result), so anything I do know has come from my father and his brother.

No, my need to continue the family name comes from no place other than my having a sense of duty as a man, and pure tradition. I am my fathers only child and, in a truly heartbreaking turn of events a number of years ago, my only male cousin to have the same surname as me died from illness as a young man. All of these things, combined, always left me with a sense of responsibility and pressure when it came to my future children and it was an absolute fact for me that as the only boy, the task of continuing my grandfathers family line fell upon me and only me.

Imagine then, how bloody wonderful it was to find out that I was having a baby boy, due to join us in January 2016. I remember being sat next to Katie, as she lay there on the hospital bed with her big pregnancy bump exposed to the medical team, and the woman asking something along the lines of “Did you want to know the babies sex?” We’d already decided ahead of time that we did, but as I went to look in Katie’s eyes to have one moment with her before we were to find out the gender of our child, she immediately shouted “yes!” and within seconds we had been told the little thing inside that pregnancy bump was a baby boy.

People probably say this all the time, but I knew he was a boy. Genuinely, I did – ask my lady! Quite how I knew, I’m not sure, but I damn sure did and I was damn sure correct.

The funny thing is that I was so sure we were having a boy, that suddenly all my reasons for wanting a boy seemed unimportant, and I began wishing it was going to be a girl. I’d always wanted a little boy to raise, but now I also wanted a little princess who was always going to love her daddy.

I now found myself delighted I was having a boy, but sad I wasn’t having a little girl!

That said, I can now start dreaming of what my son is going to achieve in his life. Maybe he’ll be an actor? Or an athlete? Perhaps he’ll simply work in an office and be content with his life? Any of those is fine with me.

For me, I’ve done the one thing that always seemed so damned important: I’ve kept the family name going. The responsibility for the name now gets passed on to him, and he can do whatever he wants with it. He could have five sons, and give us several more future generations on the family tree as a result, or maybe he won’t even be able to have children? Maybe he won’t even want to have children?

Whatever he chooses, he’s absolutely perfect, and I can say that without having even laid eyes on his little face, hands or feet yet.

He’s my little boy.

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