I was absolutely convinced that my second child would be a girl. I was so convinced that I had chosen a name, was picking out brightly coloured rompers for her summer wardrobe, and had decided what doll might most closely resemble her possible skin tone based on her older brother.
I’ve already been blessed with one girl via my nine-year-old step-daughter. I can’t take credit for her precocious personality, her inquisitive nature, her empathy or any of the other things I love about her, so a part of me was looking forward to raising this second daughter from birth. I had strong ideas of how I wanted to raise a little black girl, ideas that had been subconsciously forming ever since my first introduction to Black Feminism during my third year at university.
This image was so clear in my mind, that I was in complete shock on finding out my unborn child was another boy. My breath caught in my throat as the sonographer told me that I’d be having another son, and as if to confirm it without a shadow of a doubt, when I turned to look at the ultrasound screen, I saw the bright white silhouette of his genitals for myself as he floated in the amniotic fluid.