Boy or girl?

There are not many surprises left these days. We live in world motivated by technological advances and fast paced living. Everything we need to know is right at our fingertips with the touch of a button. That suits me because, generally speaking, I am not really one for surprises. Rationale: I like to be prepared and avoid embarrassing situations like:

1.      People turning up unannounced which means the visitors are, unfortunately:

A. Privy to the house looking like it has been turned upside down, shaken and stirred no matter what time of day and despite regular but sporadic cleaning marathons when Lottie sleeps;

B. On the receiving end of a resting bitch face which in complete contrary to its description, for me unfortunately has a degree of bitch incapable of resting.

There are no winners.

2.      Having to explain why I am wearing fat pants and a hoodie to the supermarket on the way to what I thought was the normal Mark pick up but was actually the surprise arena. *For the record this is a made-up example because I don’t have the benefit of experience. It is one of the many examples from my mind bank full of made up surprise parties that Mark has never thought to throw for me. I’m not dark about it, clearly.

Obviously for me and clearly not so obviously for Mark, there are two types of surprises: The surprises that I don’t like (period) and surprises that I say I don’t like but that I actually do. It’s only ever when we are both privy to a thoughtful male perfectly executing a surprise for his lady/man (#sexualequality) that the issue is brought to the table for “discussion”.  Every single time, Mr Thoughtless and Mrs Mixed Messages are at complete loggerheads and more often than not what results is an agreement to disagree on the following:

1.        Men are not mind readers;

2.        Men are not thoughtless;

3.        Woman are not irrational;

4.        Woman don't say one thing and mean another.

So when it came to the very political issue of finding out the sex of our baby, we couldn't just agree to disagree. And risk sounding like a family lawyer again, it needed be a joint decision.

I accept that one could find out and not tell the other. This could be on the basis that you both agree or that one is just being deceitful. I couldn't see the benefit in either option. One would result in a long four months of trying to keep a secret (a skill which for me continues to be a work in progress) and the other would just leave me feeling guilty (which is the worst emotion known to any woman).

Naturally, I wanted to find out. I wanted to know what colour to paint the baby's room, limit our extensive gender diverse baby name list and, of those, carefully consider whether the resulting initials and vocalisation of the names could ridicule my child. For example, Q Heaphy, which if pronounced quickly sounds like the well-known fanny fart, would be quick to go.

Mark wanted a surprise and through his typically considered rationale and analytical thinking, I eventually agreed. However, it soon became apparent that my nosy self was not entirely at peace with that decision. Over the course of the first six months, I had:

1. Googled every wives tale known to figure out the sex on my own;

2. Taken screenshots of scanned babies nether-regions in utero on google so I could easily make comparisons at each and every scan;

3. Asked my midwife to take the babies heart beat at each appointment to determine whether it was over 145bpm or not (over suggests it is a girl);

4. Tried to attend scans on my own so that I could tell the scanner that Mark and I had agreed to find out the sex of our babe;

5. Placed considerable weight on listening for a slip up on the part of my midwife or the scanners for a “he” or “she”.

As D day (or B day) in this case approached, I became more concerned with getting the baby out than anything else. That feeling amplified in the early hours of 30 December 2018 as Lottie made her presence well and truly felt during the unkind and unflattering self-taught life skill that is child birth. As I lay there living through my very own rendition of "The Fast and Furious" nothing else mattered but having a healthy baby.

And there it was: A new perspective. Not everyone’s perspective, but mine. Who cares what sex the baby is? The world needs both. Who cares if I am a bit disorganised after the birth? Having a neutral feature wall in the baby room will be the least of my worries. Who cares if my baby is wearing blue for a few weeks post birth? Chances are she will continue to be mistaken for a boy for the first year of her life anyway. It may have taken a labour to "induce" my very own mental shift but I got there in the end. Next time round the same rules will apply, with a lot less of the crazy (Mark hopes).