Swear to God. I have a fifteen minute video of fetus-Archer with "SAIL AWAY, SAIL AWAY, SAIL AWAY" in the background. No offense to any of you Enya lovers out there and I'll admit, I used to rock the shit out of Enya in my playboy-bunny-sticker-on-lower-abdomen-tanning-salon days, but that was the 90's folks. And I was fourteen. Caribbean Blue totally suited my lifestyle.
Regardless, I brought the video home to show Hal so he could experience the joy of seeing his son's penis for the first time and would you believe? Once that Enya started blasting from our TV, Hal cried out in embarrassment, totally non-plussed by the whole experience and weirded-out that I brought such a thing home for him to view.
"What! It wasn't like I chose the soundtrack!"
"Just turn the volume down. That's our baby! That's our little boy!"
"Hmmmm.... Where did you go to get this thing done?"
"A doctor's office?"
"Um. Not exactly."
It was the dicktor's fault. He didn't let me get more than two ultrasounds my entire pregnancy and I was desperate. I am the most impatient person on this planet that I know of and am unable to wait for anything or anyone. I'm one of those people who must know NOW. Surprises might be some kind of fun for most but for me? They're utterly stressful. I make lists. I listen in on conversations about TV episodes I've missed. I used to raid my parent's closets on Christmas Eve to find out what I was getting in the morning and to this day, I still read the last chapter of every book before I read its first sentence.
So, yeah. When it comes to knowing the sex of my baby, I have to know. I just have to.
I was thirty-minutes early to my doctor appointment this morning. I couldn't sleep last night. I even posted a "boy or girl" contest on my other blog, so excited was I. I had set aside an entire day devoted to a post-doctor shopping spree. I thought for sure I would 100% have a "boy or girl" answer this afternoon, which, duh! What was I thinking. (When am I ever thinking?)
"Do you want to know what you're having today?" The doctor asked.
"Hmmm... Uh. Lemme think. Yesyesyesyesyesinfinityesyesyesyeys."
I pulled up my shirt and sat tight, my phone unlocked and ready to text Hal as soon as the doctor made his "here-ye!" proclamation. I watched the tiny black screen, my eighteen-and-a-half week fetus. It's little fingers. It's little toes. It's.... uh.... nothing between its legs.
"It looks like you're having a girl..." Doctor said. "BUT! Don't paint the room pink. It's not the clearest picture. You'll come back in three weeks and we'll use the ultrasound machine that isn't 80 years-old."
"But... what if..."
"I'd say, I'm pretty close to being completely sure you're having a girl..."
"But that's not... Oh. Okay."
I put my phone away, deflated. I wanted so badly to text Hal with "It's a... Something!" I wanted to badly to refer to myself as carrying a "he" or "she"... To share with the world and tattoo on my forehead for all to know and see. I wanted to be able to tell Archer, when I picked him up from school today, "DUDE! You are totally having a brother!" or "Guess who's having a sister-sledge?"... Instead, I went home waitlisted and infected with to-be-determined-itis, which, I'll be honest, was a total buzzkill.
I called Hal from the car, told him he probably might have a daughter but I didn't really know for sure because the doctor wasn't positive. I called my mom, told her the same and when I picked up Archer from school he gave me my first homemade Mother's Day present ever, so I didn't tell him anything, because I was too busy weeping like an idiot over his painted hands on a piece of construction paper.
"This is supposed to be a surprise," Archer's teacher had said. And it was a surprise. I had somehow totally forgotten about Mother's Day, which, sorry mom. Your card may be a few days late...
Life is so typical, isn't it? Contrary to plan. Books don't come out on their release dates. Husbands, after being out of work for six months get two job offers in less than a week. Little boys who don't talk decide to, suddenly, speak completely and fully in sentences AND then potty-train themselves. (Archer on his own decided it was time to use the potty last night after months of me failing as a potty-trainer. It was like a switch went off or something. Crazy!) I mean, isn't it all just so ironic? Like a free ride when you're already late and good advice that you just didn't take?
I think so, anyway.
In three weeks I go back for my 22 week appointment where the doctor will tell me "FOR SURE what we're having" or at least that's what I've been told. It isn't true of course. No one ever knows for sure anything. Ever. Like how I raided my parent's closet on most Christmas Eves only to find gifts that weren't mine. And how when I read the ends of books the words never mean anything-- prose without a pulse until I can re-read them again, in proper thematic order.
The most ironic thing of course is that, I am at my happiest going through life without the slightest clue as to what's really going on. When I can hope or dream or make things up. Winding up that Jack-in-the-Box, heart-beating with anticipation. Kind of like yesterday. Kind of like right now.
I'm also pretty sure I read somewhere that rain on your wedding day is good luck. So there's also that.