Patience, Grasshopper

I called my mom yesterday after my trip to the obstetrician, but she wasn’t home. My dad was. Now, I love my dad, but when it comes to whining about pregnancy, my mom is a far better audience. However, my dad is too eager to try to connect to let me off with a simple, “I’ll have your mom call you when she gets home.” No, he likes to keep me on the line for long stretches of time asking things like, “So, after this last doctor’s appointment, do we know anything more about the baby?”

I struggled to come up with whatever tiny bits of grandfather-appropriate information I’d gleaned from my most recent five minutes with the OB. “Well, it’s still positioned head-down, which is g—” Then it hit me. My dad was asking yet again whether the baby is a boy or girl! Thirty-nine weeks and two days in, and he still can’t just wait until I deliver!

I know how he feels. Beyond the challenges of finding gender-neutral nursery décor and clothing—particularly newborn socks, about which there is apparently a law that dictates they can only can be manufactured in pink or blue—and coming up with twice as many name options (this morning Dr. Husband came up with Sergio, and I had to ask him to think a little harder about whether he was actually suggesting a name before he ran it by me)—beyond all that, I’m dying to know whether my future is more likely to be filled with tea parties and jewelry-making tutorials or trips to the garbage transfer station and the Washington Serpentarium.

But nine months of not knowing has been good practice at being mindful that knowing the sex of this kid won’t answer all our questions about who they are and what they’ll like as they grow up. Having a girl child won’t guarantee that all my old dollhouse furniture will be put to good use any more than having a boy will guarantee that it won’t, as I keep reminding Dr. Husband each time he intimates that one of the benefits of having a boy will be not having to move my beloved but unwieldy (and to Dr. Husband, somewhat creepy) dollhouse inside from the garage.

So, Dad, you have my sympathies, but you’ve waiting this long—I think you’ll make it another few days. Try to savor the thrill of not knowing, the deliciousness of anticipation.

And if you can’t do that, just try to distract yourself and have Mom call me when she gets home.