In three days, I will have the ultrasound that can tell whether I am carrying a boy or a girl. Yes, I am going to find out. I am a planner. I know lots of people say they want it to be a surprise. It will be a surprise. It'll be a surprise on Thursday when I find out. That's enough surprise for me. I never even entertained the idea of not finding out. There have been several mini-milestones during my twenty weeks of pregnancy-- feeling the baby move, having to buy new blue jeans, and passing into my second trimester come to mine-- but this, finding out the baby's sex, is by far the biggest milestone so far. On Thursday, the baby will stop being "he or she" or as we have come to refer to it, "Sprout." On Thursday, the beginnings of an identity will form, at least in our minds. I hear many women say that they bonded more easily with the baby once they knew its gender, and I can certainly understand how that could be true. I think knowing a gender, and thereby a name, will make the baby less of a stranger to me on the day it is born.
As much as I am looking forward to some clarity on this matter, I find that I have enjoyed the ambiguity, much to my surprise. Michael and I have looked at little girl clothes and little boy clothes, we've talked endlessly about boy names and girl names, and we've looked at color schemes for both. On Thursday, half of the conjecturing will end. On Thursday, we will begin the real decision making work of preparing for this baby. We will no longer consider every color of the rainbow, but will eliminate either blue or pink in favor of one or the other-- metaphorically speaking. I find that I am unexpectedly sad that the time has come to say good-bye to "Sprout."
Michael and I realize that we have become somewhat conflicted these last few days. When people ask us what we want, naturally, we say it doesn't matter. That's what you're supposed to say. And we had convinced ourselves that it really didn't matter. But now, as the date to know draws nearer, we have come to realize that we do indeed have a preference, and we find ourselves feeling sort of guilty about that. It feels like we've chosen one child over another. Even though there is only one child, there are two potentialities, and we feel like we've done wrong by one of them. I will not go so far as to say that we could be disappointed with one or another outcome-- we absolutely will not be. We will not mourn or bemoan the way it might have turned out. In the end, we will get what we wanted so very much, a baby. Still, there is no denying that Thursday will bring the beginning of one identity, and at the same time an ending to another one, if only in theory. So yes, I am excited about finding out what kind of Sprout I'm having, but there is a bittersweet hint to it as well. These first twenty weeks, though not always pleasant, have been amazing. It has been fun to wonder and speculate on whether I'm carrying a boy or a girl. We've enjoyed doing all the old wives tales, the results of which were inconclusive, split 50/50. Only one thing is certain at this point, and that is that we will be immensely happy on Thursday. How's that for a Valentine's Day gift?
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3 comments:
Of course you have a preference. Don't feel guilty about it either, and don't feel guilty about being a little disappointed if it's not what you were hoping for. It is such a complex spectrum of emotion, and not one that you can really prepare yourself for. As I always say, own what you're feeling and go from there. You'll work it out.
A week from now, even if it's not "what you wanted" you'll feel like you could never turn back. It's one of the few paradigms where you could never be disappointed in the results, and that is incredibly, incredibly cool.
One of the neatest memories of my childhood was our family's tradition of shooting fireworks at midnight on Christmas Eve. My grandfather started it and my mother practiced it religiously every year. She said it was so Santa Claus could find our house. Now I know some people don't believe in Santa Claus or Christmas, but irregadless of one's belief's, I can attest to the fact that as a child, it was quite a thrill hearing the poof of the Roman candles and the whirling sound of the bottle rockets and watching their sparks dissappear in the night sky. But most memorable is the charred smell of gunpowder smoke that lingered in the air afterwards. Okay, so I know it's strange to associate gunpowder with Christmas, but hey, it was a bang. Is it time to open the presents yet?
Wow Kimerly, I'm such an idiot; I meant to leave this comment on your "Traditions" blog.
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