Gender Day

Unfortunately, it's not actually national gender day, which actually falls on June 32 each year. It's an obscure Holiday celebrated mainly in the southern regions of what used to be known as Uzbekistan, before Pangea broke off. Anyhow, a bit off topic, I suppose.

In the office we read dueling magazines. I read Vanity Fair.

S: Is that a magazine for women?

M: I think it's like Esquire for girls. Or TNY lite. Instead of an article about some ballet director it's on Tiger Woods' affairs.

S reads a magazine called Fit and Pregnant.

M: Why are all the women in the magazine wearing only underwear? Is it some sort of prerequisite of being pregnant that you are sans pants?

S: It's the summer issue. Those are bathing suits. And yeah, pants are pretty uncomfortable.

S reads facts about pregnancy to me. Apparently semen is not the labor inducing substance that it's often been credited to be.

S: It is good at softening the cervix. Do you know what the cervix is?

M: No. And I'd like to keep it that way.

I read an article about Tiger Woods with attached pictures of his mistresses.

M: You have to give him credit at least all of these women are hot. Can I get a high five on that?

S: (Stares ahead, secretly regretting bringing me to the appt/life).

M: No. All right.

We both secretly lament catching sight of our sonogram lady.

S: I was kind of hoping for a different one. (Pause) Stop glaring at her.

We sit in the small dark room while the lady takes pictures of our baby. And it gives me time to think about whether I really care about the gender of the child. Like sometimes when you say you don't care about something, but then when it arrives you discover that you really do. This happens primarily when choosing an option for dinner, when both parties say, "I don't really care. I could eat whatever." At that point one or the other suggests Chinese and the person, who has just said, literally seconds before that they don't care, comes out with, "That doesn't sound good," and makes another suggestion. To which the person who just idly suggested Chinese, now realizes either
a) Their life cannot continue without having Chinese food and this is a battle that must be fought, perhaps killed over.
b) That their sig. other is a passive aggressive liar who always wanted something but wasn't willing to just say it in the first place. In which case, over their dead body will they be going anywhere that the person suggests.

The typical outcome is usually a bowl of cereal and some toast as well as a near homicidal rage against anyone who says they don't care about something when they do.

Anyhow, the point is I wasn't really sure what I wanted, but I couldn't be sure that I wasn't wrong. Which, this not actually knowing oneself, makes being a human being simultaneously interesting and incredibly annoying. The sonogram lady started complaining about our sexless child's unwillingness to turn and face her. A fact for which I'm already secretly applauding the child. I consider it a wise move to keep my face turned from people who aren't my biggest fans either.

This time S asks all sorts of questions, which the sonogram lady answers as though she might actually like people/unborn children. I try my best not to let this sway my opinion of her, as I value, quite highly, holding strong and possibly misinformed opinions of folks. I feel like admitting that sonogram lady is an okay person precludes me from later saying that I'm a good judge of character and that it only takes me two minutes or so to know if a person is worth my energy.

Listen, as much as I was internally wondering about what the gender was going to be. I didn't really have any question. If science has taught us anything it's that men are responsible for the sex of the child, and therefore are the first ones to know what sex the child will be. I determined it. Side note: I love that the current ad on my facebook page is learning how to be a sonogram tech.

So, after a long wait in the small room the sonogram lady asked, "Do you want to find out what sex your child is?"

Then she messed about for a while probably to punish us for not having a child who would show its face. This lead to a brief period where S was again asked to shake her hips in a manner that I can only describe as degrading to pregnant women everywhere, who should be able to rest idly and be told by techs how beautiful their child is.

Tech: "It's a girl."

S: "Are you sure?"

Tech: "Yep. That's a girl."

So, I had two almost simultaneous reactions/feelings.

1) I am so incredibly joyful.
2) We have to have a boy next.

And I suppose I got my answer as to how I was feeling. I wanted twins. Kidding. Kidding.

S looked down at me, and I touched her toes, as our baby girl, the one I've been calling Mia for weeks already, because I knew, turned to face the sonogram tech.

Tech: Can you see the little eyes?

S: Yes.

M: She's not too pretty is she? (Luckily this was only mouthed at Steph. She couldn't understand me.).

Later
S: What did you say?
M: I'm just saying she's not a real looker and that I'm glad she's going to keep developing or there are going to be a lot of Saturday nights spent at home with mom and dad. It's fine. It's fine. We can play checkers. I don't even know how to play checkers? I know how to play chess. How can I have gotten through life without really playing checkers?

S: Are you stressing out a bit?

M: I just don't know what it's like to be a girl. I know up to about thirty what it means to be a boy. This will all be new for me. What am I going to do with a little girl?

S: You'll be fine.

Later:

S: I cried a little.

The room was small and dark, box-shaped like every doctor's office I've ever been in. When the tech told us we were having a girl I felt that incredibly sense of euphoria that comes only at the best of times in life. I held back my tears, and watched my little girl turn and face us, arms thrown up above her head, as if uniting in our celebration. Yes, you are little girl, and you are loved.