I cannot relate to people who deliberately choose to leave their child’s gender for a delivery room surprise. As agonizingly long and mysterious as pregnancy seemed to me, turning one’s back on insider information made possible by scientific advances seems quaint and backward, like Amish people. It’s like saying, “Although you are offering me the opportunity to see gorgeous undiscovered stars with your fancy new telescope, I prefer to let the mystery be.” That horse-and-buggy lifestyle may work for you, but meanwhile I’ll be over here posting my kid’s gender on Facebook using my iPhone.
The revelatory ultrasound happened the day before Thanksgiving. In that tense moment of truth, I recall being 100% sure I wanted the fetus to be female and only about 20% guilty for having a strong preference. My husband took the diplomatic “I don’t care as long as it’s healthy” stance. When all was made clear by the telltale W and the technician assured us she had gotten a really good view and it was a lock that we were having a girl, I couldn’t stop grinning. I realized I was going to be able to enjoy the pregnancy more knowing that I wouldn’t have to wonder how the hell to clean baby shit from a tiny, stubby penis – about which I would also not have to make a circumcision decision.
Any fleeting daydream in which I’d ever starred as “Mom” had featured a tiny copy of me, which would of course be a girl. Charlie held true to his original premise of “whatever” on the gender front with only an occasional wistful aside. Any son of ours would doubtless grow up steeped in music, technology, and pop culture but the idea of him tossing a pigskin with dear old dad struck us both as highly unlikely and slightly scary.
When we decided to have a second kid, and faced a second ultrasound the tables were suddenly, immediately turned. I had gone into this pregnancy cheerfully chirping, “Whatever, I got mine” and Charlie was clearly pulling for “one of each.” This being a binary decision, it was winner-loser time, and Team Pink was 2 for 0.
As we made our fourth major life decision together (marriage, one kid, second kid, no more kids) it became evident that all was not completely rosy in Daddyland. I made an effort to downplay the three to one ratio in our household: choosing carseats and diaper bags in gender neutral colors, mixing in the occasional train set or Nerf gun amid purchases of Barbies and stuffed unicorns.
But none of that changed the fact that he was living with a loss that I didn’t share. When Camden has friends over, we both marvel over the boy that eats four slices of pizza to her two, and the way the decibel level multiplies exponentially when you throw guys into the mix. It’s clear to me, however, that his observations are fringed with regret.
Like every blow you’re dealt, like every unhoped for outcome you can’t change, I assume his discomfort will lessen over time. I can only watch from the sidelines as he deals with it in his own private way.
