There I was, age 34, and pregnant with my third child. I secretly, desperately hoped for a girl. I had two boys already, and this was my last chance for a mini-me. Not that I wouldn’t have been happy with a boy. I truly would have loved and enjoyed him as much as my other boys. However, I had visions of all things pink, Barbie dolls, baby dolls, dollhouses, smocked dresses, and shiny black Mary Janes. I also had my share of worries. I was 34, after all, and I had been so lucky to have given birth to two healthy babies, and I guess I thought I was tempting fate by having another. I work in special education, so I knew the risks. Not only were there genetic disorders, but the scary Autism Spectrum Disorder that had become so prevalent in recent years. I had worked with some children with autism by that time, but not many, and not on a daily basis. I was still under the assumption that 1 out of 100 kids born with autism was a pretty low chance, and I knew that boys were more likely to have it than girls, which gave me yet another reason to hope for a girl. (oh, the irony!)
