A few weeks ago Jake and I were talking with a fellow preggo couple about whether or not to find out the sex of our babies. Neither one of them (the other couple, that is) had too strong of an opinion on the matter, so the preggo mama told me she was going to let her husband decide whether or not they’d find out because, “I get to do everything else for this pregnancy… I want him to get to decide something.” Wow. She is so way more mature than I am.
She is also, by the way, planning to give birth in a bathtub with her husband in there with her, massaging her back as she eases her child out (sans epidural) into a soothing pool of warm water. Suffice it to say, finding out the sex is not the only preggo decision on which we differ.
Jake, however, would surely trade me in for her in a heartbeat if it meant he could know for sure a mini Panthers jersey would be an appropriate “home from the hospital” outfit for our little one. But I think he’d lie like a rug about his swimming abilities, just to avoid that whole bathtub situation…
Speaking of my baby daddy, I asked him to write a “He Said” guest-blog post for a “He Said/She Said” about whether or not to find out the sex of our baby. I think at first he thought there was a chance my mind could be changed on the matter. Bless his heart. Still… good sport that he is, he wrote one anyway. And it’s so dang cute and self-deprecating I don’t even have the heart to write the “She Said” version because… well, he kinda covers my side too. It’s things like this that make me love this man. So much that I’d almost consider caving and finding out what we’re having on our next visit. Almost. But not quite. I’m sticking to my inconsiderate guns on this one and banking heavily on the fact that it’ll be worth the wait.
But as you know, I’m not the only one with an opinion here. So here’s what “He Said:”
Seven months in, and I still want to know. Bad.
Prior to the pregnancy, I’m not sure I would have labeled myself OCD, but I sure am feeling OCDish regarding this finding out the sex of the baby deal. As I’ve stated a few times here on this progg (preggo blog), I simply loathe not being able to relate to the lil’ Flinglet. I hate calling it, well, “it.” If it’s a dude, I want to be able to walk by Page, give her stomach a fist pound and say “whadap playa.” If I knew that it was a girl, I would do something girly…not sure what, but suffice it to say, it would be the opposite of a fist pound…maybe rehash the latest Gossip Girl episode…sing Miley Cyrus to her…you know, girly stuff.
The problem I’m having is that Page’s counter-reasons for why we should wait are just too good. It’s weird, I really have no good reasons why I want to know, I just do. It’s like voting for the President all over again. For the purposes of this, let’s make up a candidate – let’s call him, and this is completely a fictional example, Orack Bobama. I’m a big fan of Orack the guy, but let’s say that I don’t know a ton about his politics. I’m not a (air quotes) “political guy.” Do I need to give reasons why I really like him? No. I just do.
With this in mind, here is a typical conversation between me and my wonderfully convincing wife about finding out:
[Jake and Page during a timeout at the latest UNC football embarrassment]
Jake: …seriously, I want to know the baby’s sex.
Page: [Sigh] Yeah, Jake, I got it. But, um, we’re waiting.
Jake: Page, I need to know. This is killing me.
Page: What is your deal, you chose early on to wait to find out.
Jake: [Following a Cam Sexton interception] What a horrible pick!
Page: Actually, I thought it was a great decision on your part. Very mature, old school.
Jake: Wait, what? I was talking about the interception…a pick…oh nevermind.
Page: p.s. I just won again – we’re waiting.
Jake: [Beaten, frustrated] I’ll bring this up again in a few days and then we’ll see what sex we’re having…I mean, wait, you know what I mean!
I tell Page I want to paint the room, she reminds me that we already spent our stimulus check on an elaborate half-gloss half-flat paint job in the soon-to-be baby room that would make the Sistine Chapel proud.
I tell her that I want to lock in a name, she tells me that we won’t truly know the name until we meet him or her.
I tell her that I want to put my baby day dreams in context, she tells me that that sounds weird and sketchy.
Either way, I can’t win. I can’t even get across a coherent argument here on this blog. My only hope is that there are a few of you out there that know what I’m saying. That feel me. My life is about to change BIG TIME. Can’t I just have one last piece of control?
Page: [Somewhere across Raleigh, sensing my whining] No, we’re waiting.
Page/baby – 5,193, Jake/paintbrush – 0
