CONFESSIONS OF A PREGNANT MIND

I Don’t Want To Have A Son

There is a popular story in Raskin family lore about my grandmother’s desperate desire to have a daughter. After two failed attempts* (*two healthy and happy boys), she made the decision to try for a third child hopeful that it would finally be a girl. It was not. My grandma was so distraught by this cruel fate that she spent my Uncle Mark’s bris crying in another room. Growing up, this was a funny story that captured my grandmother’s strong personality, but there was always a tinge of sadness to it. What is it like to live with the knowledge that you weren’t what your mother wanted? That your mere existence was a source of anguish?

As I prepare to find out the sex of my baby in the next few days, I feel myself torn between the mother I want to be and the person that I am. For as long as I’ve contemplated having a child, I’ve dreamed of a daughter. As one of two girls, my nuclear family had strong feminine energy. We always outnumbered our dad, which meant we always made time for shopping, manicures and romcoms. It’s a dynamic I feel comfortable in and (jealously) watched my sister get to emulate with my nieces. I know nothing of young boys other than their penchant for getting dirty and throwing things. And what I know of grown men under the patriarchy terrifies me. When I try to get excited about raising a son, I fail.