I was just reading this touching post at Velveteen Mind about hoping for a baby girl, and it reminded me of an essay I wrote years ago while pregnant with baby #4, which was published in the (now-defunct) ePregnancy magazine. Reading it again I am reminded of how intense that desire for a girl was, and how glad I am that, though I would have been totally happy as a mom of five boys, the dream of having a daughter is one I didn’t have to give up after all. (It doesn’t hurt that Clara is one of the sweetest, smiley-est, most dimply-chunky-legged babies I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing.)

Here’s the essay, written almost exactly four years ago.

I am sixteen and one-half weeks pregnant with my fourth child, most likely my last. My pregnancy is going smoothly; I feel healthy and I have a baby with a strong heartbeat.

But I can’t relax. You see, I have three boys.

They are smart, funny, energetic, and affectionate little guys, aged one and a half, 5, and 7. They bring joy and depth to my life, and I couldn’t imagine life without either of them. But I was supposed to have girls.

From the time I was a young girl, playing with my Cabbage Patch dolls, I preferred girls to boys. I gestated, birthed, breastfed, and diapered hundreds of imaginary Ashleys, Jennys, and Sarahs.

When I became pregnant with my first child, the idea that it could be a boy never even crossed my mind. I imagined only a curly-headed little replica of myself, spinning around in pink tutus and tiaras.

What I got was an ultrasound picture with a large white circle drawn around some very suspiciously male genitalia, and a single word, all in capitals: BOY. Well, it wasn’t what I expected, but I soon adjusted to the idea of a curly-headed little replica of myself spinning around in a Spiderman costume. Boy names? Easier, but not as fun as girl names. Boy clothes? Not nearly as good a selection as there is for girls. And five months later, my firstborn, whom we named Jacob, was born.

Not so very long after Jake came along, I found out that I was pregnant again. This time, I really tried to have no expectation about gender. I told myself that a boy would be fine, but a girl would bring balance. If I have a girl this time, I reasoned, then my family would be complete and I would be able to retire from parenting at the age of 40. Not that I was expecting, or hoping for, a girl or anything, mind you.

The baby was already there, a boy or girl, just waiting to join our family. Nope. I was just going to accept this baby’s gender, no matter what. And on and on I went.

And at the 20-week mark, I found myself once again staring at a wiggling penis on an ultrasound screen—and once again trying to brush off the pang of disappointment that followed. And when my third ultrasound also showed a boy, I felt the pang again.

When I found out that I was pregnant with my fourth child, I decided not to find out its sex. “Aren’t you dying to know?” people asked. “No,” I told them all smugly, “I want it to be a surprise.” It took me a while to remember that I never did much like surprises.

This baby means the difference between a family of boys—a rough-and-tumble jumble of muddy sneakers, fishing poles, and frogs—or two boys and their little sister, which conjures up images of canopy beds and tap shoes. This baby carries the potential for making me the mother of the bride, or the four-time, happy-and-proud-but-slightly-less-prominent mother of the groom.

Sometimes it occurs to me that most of this baby is already firmly in place: hair color, eye color, complexion, and yes, sex; all these are determined by now. An ultrasound gender diagnosis won’t change the fact that this baby is already a boy or a girl. And the truth is, both possibilities bring a smile to my face. And yet—as long as the possibility of that mother-daughter bond exists, I won’t really be able to let go of the fantasy.

Mothers aren’t supposed to admit that they would like their child to be one sex over the other. As long as the baby is healthy, we are told, it’s selfish to want anything more specific. Of course, I’d like to think I’m not one of the selfish ones. But hoping for one gender or the other is not the same as wishing for a different baby. I wouldn’t trade this baby in for a different one, no matter what the gender. I love the baby I’ve got, but this pregnancy could represent my final chance for a girl. And, selfish or not, if I never have a girl, I’ll miss her presence.

My ultrasound appointment is set for three weeks from today. I know that when I face the ultrasound technician my stomach will be fluttering like crazy with nerves. And if the words I hear are “girl”—then I can let my little-girl fantasies run wild.

And if she says “boy”, I know what I’ll do. I’ll feel a momentary letdown, a pang, and in one long exhale, I’ll let go of the tutus and the fairy princess costumes and the canopy beds and the prom dresses. And as I inhale, I’ll imagine four little boys in a row, getting haircuts, running through my backyard, and tackling me with hugs. I’ll smile and go home dreaming of the family that we will become.