By Sarah Watts
Six months into our pregnancy with Henry, after our bombshell diagnosis of spina bifida, Lou and I would make regular treks up to Park Ridge to see our Maternal-Fetal Medicine specialist, who kept us abreast on how the baby was doing in utero. Since I'm ridiculously extroverted and I adore small talk, I started chatting up the receptionist as we were filling out some paperwork, post-appointment (Lou, his usual introvert self, was probably silently willing me to stop talking). At this point, we had already been told by two separate doctors that Henry would be totally paralyzed from the waist down.
We started talking about her kids -- three girls! -- and I asked her if she preferred girls, or if she might try for a boy. We both quickly agreed that the baby's sex wasn't really that important -- boy or girl, they were blessings.
"Oh, I like girls, but it doesn't matter to me!" she exclaimed. "You know, as long as they're healthy and running around!"