We Learned Our Baby’s Gender with Confetti, a Christmas Ornament and God’s Timing

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned some life-altering moments arrive loudly and others arrive quietly. These quiet ones don’t roar in like dramatic plot twists or announce themselves with cinematic flair. Instead, they slide in—into your waiting, your hoping, your secret worrying. Our gender reveal was one of those moments, tucked inside fear and uncertainty that eventually unfolded into clarity, restoration, and a dash of confetti.

The Waiting Became Its Own Test

Pregnancy in your late thirties carries its own mix of reverence and caution. You’re wiser than you were the first time around, more grounded, more self-aware, but also more attuned to what can go wrong. So when my first NIPT results returned with “no fetal data,” I felt my patience thin almost immediately. I had waited the prescribed amount of time, envisioned the reassuring email arriving with “low risk” stamped across it, and imagined the sweet moment when a pink or blue powder-filled football revealed our baby’s gender. Instead, I got… nothing. Not even a hint.

We tried again, and this time the results came back split down the middle. The baby’s chromosomes looked perfect, but the gender was inconclusive. I was confused, then irritated, and then slowly, quietly afraid. The referral to a genetic counselor only heightened that fear. She was professional, kind, and thorough. But her job was to prepare me for every possibility, and each one she listed chipped away at my sense of ease. She explained why results can come back inconclusive, offered medical theories, and repeated the word “amniocentesis” more times than I could stomach. By the time the appointment ended, I felt the familiar sting of tears, that deep unsettling sense that the ground underneath you has shifted.

But I work really hard to never let fear get the last word. I remembered the prayers I had been praying since before this baby even existed—prayers for health, wholeness, no disease, no disorder, no disability, and a pregnancy that would be complete and gentle. Confessing those words again brought a measure of calm back to me. Not a perfect peace or a “I’m totally fine now” kind of peace, but enough to hold me steady as I waited for the anatomy scan.

Holding My Breath In the Ultrasound Room

The day of the anatomy scan began with a familiar drive to a familiar building, but everything inside felt slightly off. They called me back to the room alone (without Eddie), something that immediately unsettled me. And a different nurse greeted me, resulting in a whole different rhythm to the appointment. It felt like my senses were on high alert, as if my body knew before my soul admitted it that I needed reassurance today.

The ultrasound tech, who was as kind as she was beautiful, explained that she would take photos and measurements first before bringing Eddie in. Something about her presence soothed me; maybe it was her calm tone, or the way she moved with practiced ease, or simply that my spirit needed someone gentle in that moment. As she slid the warm gel across my stomach and the screen flickered to life, she filled the silence with conversations here and there, letting me settle into the moment.

She captured each measurement, made funny little observations about my baby, asked me about Ava, and allowed me to steer the conversation when my nerves needed a break. When she was almost finished, Eddie came in and brought comfort and levity with him. As the ultrasound tech stepped out to review everything with the doctor, we looked together at the last few images she had taken. Our baby was active, energetic, difficult to photograph—little arms stretching, body twisting, personality already asserting itself.

When the doctor entered—also surprisingly beautiful—she sat down, looked directly at me, and said the words that broke the anxiety twisting around inside me: “Baby is perfect.”

I didn’t realize I had been holding my breath until I heard myself exhale and felt the tears come. It wasn’t a dramatic cry, just a quiet, deep release, like my spirit was finally allowed to relax. She made space for those tears and offered heaps more of reassurance. She ended by telling us that a sealed envelope with the gender would be waiting for us at checkout. And for the first time in weeks, I felt a wholeness return to my body. My baby was okay. I was okay. God was here.

Then there Were Ornaments, Envelopes, and a Poker-Faced Friend

Feeling relieved and elated, I shifted into planning mode because that’s how my brain works. I had already ordered two Christmas ornaments—one pink, one blue—from a small shop on Etsy. I chose ornaments because they felt sweet, seasonal and memorable.

I wrapped both ornaments, handed them and the envelope to my coworker and friend, Lauren, and stepped away for a bathroom break. By the time I came back, everything was done. She had chosen the correct ornament, sat it on my desk, and had not betrayed a single clue in her expression. She even posted about being part of the reveal on her own story because she was so thrilled to be included.

Meanwhile, Eddie didn’t try to cheat. But he did insist on opening the box immediately. I was planning for a reveal after dinner, something intentional and cute, but he was not about to sit in suspense longer than necessary. In hindsight, this was very on brand for him.

The Reveal That Turned Into a Comedy Sketch

We invited my immediate family over, gathered everyone at the dining table, and placed the wrapped box in Ava’s hands. She was nervous because being the center of attention was not something she enjoyed. But it was important to me that she be an active part of this experience. The box had layers: ribbon, a sticker, tissue paper, and a surprising amount of confetti. Watching her peel back each layer was a small show, and we were all laughing before she even reached the ornament because Eddie’s face was glued to her hands like he was waiting to see if his entire future was blue or pink.

When she finally uncovered the ornament and held it up, we saw pink glitter catching the light and we both looked at Eddie. He didn’t say a word. Instead, he screamed and bolted upstairs like someone had challenged him to a footrace. We heard him mumbling to himself and pacing back and forth, possibly bargaining with God. By the time he reappeared, he was wearing a pink Disney headband and announcing, very solemnly, “I’m okay now.”

My sister recorded everything.

In the split second after I saw the pink, I felt a flicker of disappointment—not a deep sadness, just a human moment of imagining one future and then suddenly being handed another. But the relief came almost instantly afterward. I know how to raise girls. I understand the language, the energy, the rhythm. Loving a daughter has always felt instinctive to me. In that moment, I realized I was being given something I already knew how to nurture.

Viewing Pregnancy as Restoration

Being pregnant at this point in my life feels different—more tender, more aware, more grateful. My body has its protests, absolutely, but my heart has stretched in ways I didn’t expect. In the years after my divorce, the idea of having another child felt further and further away. Each birthday, each failed relationship, and each new season of my life, made the dream feel less realistic. Almost like everything society communicates to women who are divorced had sunken in and caused me to silently surrender this dream.

So to receive this baby so easily, with so much love and softness surrounding the process, feels like restoration in its purest form. A gift returned to me in a moment when I had finally stopped striving for it. That alone is enough to bring me to my knees in gratitude.

And Eddie was designed for this. With five sisters and no brothers, raised by his mother and grandmother, he has the unique ability to love women with gentleness while still standing firm in who he is. Being a girl dad is part of his calling, whether he realizes it or not.

What This Season Taught Me

The whole experience taught me a few things I want to hold on to and offer to anyone else waiting for answers:

• Science is cautious by nature. Inconclusive results do not mean danger. Doctors are trained to prepare you for every possibility, but God prepares you for whatever actually happens.

• Hope and expectation are not the same thing. Hope leaves room for grace. Expectation leaves room for disappointment.

• God restores what time, fear, or circumstance convinces you you’ve lost. Sometimes slowly, sometimes suddenly, but always intentionally.

This baby girl is proof of that for me. She arrived in our story exactly when she was meant to, bringing joy, confirmation, healing, and a reminder that God’s timing doesn’t always align with our calendars, but it does align with our becoming.

PS: You can view the video of the reveal here!