We don’t find out the sex of our babies. I know many other people feel differently, and that’s fine, but I can’t imagine going through the third trimester with no suspenseful anticipation to offset the misery. Not to mention the misery of a spinal, which is, hands down, the worst part about a C-section. (Much worse than recovery, folks. A shot in the back? Ayah!) People who want to know the sex of their babies don’t feel they’re missing out on anticipation, because they’re anticipating holding their baby, seeing him/her for the first time. Well, I anticipate that too. But we all know we’re going to hold our babies soon after they’re born, barring a medical emergency. The only thing we can hold on to for real suspense is gender.
(And we’re not going to tell you names, either, so don’t bother asking. Yes, I am a curmudgeon.)
Sometimes moms know anyway, though. With Alex, I had no earthly idea. But when Julianna came along, I was absolutely certain I was carrying a girl. It was in the constant desire to get gussied up…the perky new haircut I asked for…the makeup that I actually felt like putting on, day after day. On the operating table, when they said, “It’s a girl!” I crowed, “I knew it!”
Likewise, when I was expecting Nicholas, I was equally certain it was a boy–because getting dressed up was such a chore. I spent the entire pregnancy in the slobbiest clothes I own, the clothes I wear on days I’m working outside or cleaning bathrooms. Makeup? Ugh. Hassle. On the way to St. Louis the night before the surgery, we were still negotiating names. We settled on a boy’s name at last and started on the girl. “Whatever,” I said, giving in. “It doesn’t matter anyway, because it’s a boy.”
And now comes number 4. But here’s the thing. Having been through certainty on both fronts, now I spend my days looking for evidence one way or the other. And that opens me up to reading into things and creating patterns that aren’t there. I have to remind myself that just because I think, I’m going to put on a nicer outfit today, because wanting to dress up means I’m having a girl, doesn’t mean I actually wanted to put on a nice outfit.
I don’t remember at what point in past pregnancies these patterns became clear. All I know is that the last two times, it was obvious, and as I finish out the first trimester of this one, it’s not. Am I having a boy because I’m dressing slobby? Or am I dressing slobby because I’ve had sick kids for four days straight, whining and hanging on me from waking up to bedtime, because Christian’s been busy every evening this week? Am I having a girl? Or am I just wanting to have a girl, which causes me to put on makeup at odd, unnecessary times?
<Sigh> the drama. Well, just like the rest of you, I suppose I’ll just have to live in suspense for the next six months or so.