Natasha Harding, 48, suffered from gender disappointment after yearning for a daughter
WORDS: NATASHA HARDING. MAIN PHOTO (POSED BY MODEL): SHUTTERSTOCK
As I lay on the couch waiting for my 20-week scan, my husband Paul, then 38, announced he wanted to find out the baby’s sex. It was 2006 and this was our first baby. I had a really strong sense I was having a much-longed-for daughter and everybody I spoke to told me the way I was carrying meant I was having a girl.
At my midwife check, she had said it sounded as though I was having a ‘pink one’ because the baby’s heartbeat sounded like galloping horses when she checked it with the Doppler ultrasound. I knew these were all old wives’ tales, but I was so desperate for a girl that I convinced myself they were true. My mother had recently died and I hoped that having a daughter of my own would help with the dreadful loss I felt. I couldn’t wait to recreate our wonderful relationship with my own child.
‘So, do you want to know the sex?’ asked the sonographer. Paul and I nodded our heads enthusiastically. I couldn’t wait for the confirmation I was longing for. I’d already named her Scarlett, after the heroine in Gone with the Wind – a film I had watched many times with my mum.
‘It’s a boy,’ the sonographer said, with a smile. But my face fell. I couldn’t believe it, and felt hot and cold all over. I asked the sonographer if she was certain, and she confirmed that she’d never been more sure in her life, and showed me what she was seeing on the screen, which clearly showed male anatomy.
Tears filled my eyes, and I looked at my sister-in-law Abigail, 29, who was at the appointment too. She had agreed to be my birthing partner and was there for all my scans and appointments. ‘What about Scarlett?’ I whispered to her, and she squeezed my hand, knowing that I was gutted and disappointed.
The rest of the scan passed in a blur, and I tried to focus on the positives – the baby was healthy and growing as he should be. I knew on a logical level I should be happy, but I was devastated.
I was down for the rest of the day, although Paul was delighted that he was going to have a son. When he spoke excitedly about football matches and bike rides, I kept thinking about the shopping trips, spa days and long conversations that the future me would miss out on.
Abigail had three daughters at the time (she now has four) and said she understood how I felt. However, in her very practical, no-nonsense way she reminded me how lucky I was to be having a baby, and that it would be lovely to
