Before I got pregnant, I never would have thought I’d be the kind of person who would be interested in finding out the sex of a baby before it was born.
Now that this Little Parasite is halfway to cooked, I’m a lot less sure of what kind of person I am.
I still think finding out at the actual birth is a romantic idea. I am of the opinion that life is full of very few positive surprises, so you may as well maximize the ones you get. And after going through the less-than-glamorous process of extracting a living human from one’s nether regions, I can only imagine what a delightful surprise it would be to find out a piece of information that will surely shape how you relate to that child (whether you want it to or not).
But in the weeks leading up to my 20-week ultrasound, my romantic side started getting into a bit of a skirmish with my curiosity.
I’ve always been in the business of learning as much as I can about any new situation that comes my way. For example, while I only own one (okay, three) pregnancy book(s), I have about eight pregnancy websites bookmarked to check on at least a weekly basis, and I check a forum for pregnant women multiple times a day. I seriously believe that knowledge is power (and that having fun isn’t hard when you have a library card), and regardless of whether I can do anything about a particular situation (for example, knowing about the potential for pooping during delivery doesn’t mean it won’t happen), I still feel confident and comfortable if I know what to expect.
I realize there’s not a whole lot that knowing LP’s sex will change – especially because I do not plan on focusing my attention on blue- or pink-specific paraphernalia – but my need to be over prepared certainly wants me to get all the information possible about this baby before it arrives.
My conflicting ideals left me hovering somewhere near the proverbial fence – some days in favour of taking a peek between LP’s legs now, and others preferring to let him or her grow in peace for the next four-and-a-half months.
My husband was not much help.
In a series of conversations that reminded me how eerily similar we are in terms of romanticising ‘the old-fashioned way’ and being practical in terms of current realities, he flip-flopped in rhythm with me. When he was flopping, I was flipping, and vice versa.
Finally, about four days before the can, we both flipped at the same time. We decided we’ve had enough surprises in the past few months – let’s be prepared.
(Plus, I figured, it’s as much as nice surprise now as it would be in the summer.)
We haven’t had the official results on the issue – ultrasound technicians aren’t allowed to disclose the sex to patients – but it’s a good thing we made that decision, because I’m pretty sure I got a glimpse of the all important bits during the scan. Of course, I’m not going to announce what I think I saw just yet because I am not a trained ultrasound technician, and I have an overwhelming fear of the public humiliation that would ensue if I were incorrect.
But I can say even believing that I know one way rather than the other has been a great relief. I’m now confident that it was the right decision for us.
Given that my husband and I shook on not exchanging Christmas gifts or Valentine’s day gifts, I can’t say I’m surprised to discover I’m not as much of a romantic as I originally thought.