My attempts to write something in response to news that a Victorian couple - desperate for a daughter - had aborted twin boys conceived through IVF, met repeatedly with failure. I had a dental abscess when the story broke and I couldn’t think about the scenario without gnashing my teeth.

In the end, I had to stop writing, take two Nurofen Plus, lie on the couch and watch inane TV to calm down.
Toddlers and Tiaras would do the trick, I thought, wrongly.
I watched in horror as an eight-year-old threw a well-deserved tantrum against having to endure another spray tan in the purpose-built tent her mum had procured online and set up in their living room. She seemed equally nonplussed about being measured for her ‘flipper’ (fake teeth).
‘I wouldn’t say she’s a pushy parent’, observed the woman’s down-trodden husband – staggering to the car underneath several thousand dollars’ worth of taffeta pageant dresses, a variety of wigs and the laptop on which his wife had been checking out photos of their daughter’s main rival.
Then, trailing a manicured hand along the shrine she had built out of ‘Supreme Queen’ crowns in her daughter’s pageant-themed bedroom, the self-professed ‘pageant mom’ said of her little girl: ‘she’s become my hobby’.
At this point I had to ask: was it the double-strength ibuprofen I was taking four-hourly for my dental problem, or had modern parenting completely lost the plot?
The woman in the IVF story, sadly, had lost one daughter shortly after birth and admitted to being ‘obsessed’ with having a girl, which she sees as ‘vital to her psychological health’. Something is undoubtedly vital to her psychological health, but I can almost guarantee it is not a ‘replacement’ baby girl - at the cost of her sons.
‘Gender disappointment’ is a taboo topic that many pregnant women struggle with, often silently, from the moment the gender-determining ultrasound reveals pink or blue.
It’s taboo because there’s something ‘spoilt brat’ about a parent receiving the gift of a child and complaining that it’s not exactly what they wanted – especially when others around them are struggling to have children at all.
I recently unearthed the diaries I’d written as a child. In one of them, I wrote, ‘When I grow up, I’m going to have a boy first, then twin girls’. Just like that. Babies made to order.
Childish thought, non?
As life panned out, my best friend ended up with the boy and twin girls. I had two daughters. Nine years later, a step-daughter and step-son came into my life. I now have a baby son. That’s a completed family picture I never imagined, and one I’m extremely thankful to see displayed on the mantelpiece.
I’m not in the habit of lurking in online forums, but I admit I spent an hour after reading the IVF story trawling a website called ‘In Gender’, where women support and, dare I say it, egg each other on through GD (Gender Disappointment) when they don’t get their DG (Desired Gender).
I understand wanting a daughter. I understand wanting a son. I can appreciate being disappointed not to have one or the other after several of the same gender.
I tried to understand the extent of what is described by many women on this forum as ‘grief’ that lasts years, in some cases, when a baby isn’t the ‘right’ sex. I couldn’t.
Perhaps it’s the fact that a woman on the forum I do regularly post on lost her baby only a few weeks ago, or maybe it’s that several close friends have been desperately trying to conceive now for years, but if I read one more post about someone being ‘terrified of her ultrasound’ (in case it’s a unwanted boy or another girl), I will howl.
Our family jokes about what our ten-week old baby will ‘be’ when he grows up. My husband has him pegged as a forward with a French rugby team. My daughter thinks he’ll be a ballerina. My step-daughter envisages a mixed career of football and stage musicals.
When my little girl was six, she wanted to be a ‘present girl’ when she grew up. This is a person who wraps gifts in shopping centres at Christmas.
Whether I end up supporting my kids from the bleachers, the dress circle or standing in a queue on Christmas Eve with a trolley load of gifts I don’t really need that I could just as easily wrap myself, I hope I’ll be thinking the same thing, with the same sense of love - regardless of gender, success or the path they choose:
‘That’s my child!’
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