The Man Behind the Curtain

Today is the big day. Today is the day that I find out if I am having a boy or not. Hopefully.

For a quick recap: my wife doesn’t want to know the sex of our new baby. This has driven me up a God Damn wall.

I wrote a blog on this earlier, I pouted, got pissed and basically acted like a two year old child. I decided on a passive resistance strategy to try and get my way. Today is the day to see if this has paid off.

This is week 17 into our new pregnancy. So far, no problem whatsoever. I even sometimes forget my wife is pregnant at all. She is not puking and hasn’t begun to show yet, so not much has changed in the Hossman Family life.

But being this far into the pregnancy means you finally get the good sonogram. This is the one that everyone waits for. This is where not only do they check the sex, they make sure that the new kiddo has everything it should have.

This day is exciting and terrifying, all at the same time. I am terrified before this thing that there will be something wrong. As a general rule, parents do not normally talk openly about this for the fear of the jinx factor. If by some superstition belief, if I talk about the possibility of my new child having webbed toes and a frog tongue, that this will somehow come true. Silly yes but we can’t help but all think it. Now if the kid came out and was able to fly, that we should talk about.

I am in the waiting room a little early this time around. This place is not quite as creepy guy feeling as the normal OB/GYN office because a lot of Dad’s come to this place. It’s a happy time where we can all believe that our future child will become that astronaut and not the homeless bum that we all fear. Optimism runs high here.

We are shown back to the room and get our first question: Did we bring a videotape.

No. No we did not.

My wife and I are probably some of the worst at this. At documenting memories and being crafty. I hear of other women scrapbooking, of framing and making special collages. We are so not these people. We want to be these people, but we are not. The only memories my child is going to have is the stain on the carpet from where she dumped spaghetti from her highchair. We will gather around it every once in a while as she grows and point out how cute it was. Then we’ll talk about how the dog came to eat it but got distracted by the cat and instead peed on it. Aw, memories. The last time we did this we had to borrow a videotape from the doctor. But I ask you, how many people use videotapes anymore? What about DVD’s. Come on medical science, let’s get a little advanced here!

So we live with this shame as we go in to the office. My wife gets down on the knee high table and “disrobes”. That term has always creeped me out a little. It sounds like what prisoners are told before they are stripped searched. I’m sure that this is what my wife feels like it is, so maybe the term is appropriate.

The next question is the biggie: Do we want to know the sex of the baby?

This is the money question and the one I have been working on my wife for 2 straight months. I have asked her this question daily. I have hoped to wear her down by now. Every night before we go to bed I ask it. Sometimes when she says no I let it go and just resume the plan. Sometimes I pout and sometimes I argue. It’s a multi fascinated strategy that is meant to wear down my wife’s resolve.

I have even recruited the nurses, who usually love me. I joke around with them, am very appreciative because no one makes your life easier than a nurse, trust me and have offered bribes. Several of them like my wife’s purse, which is some designer brand that I can’t remember. I have promised this purse to whichever nurse can convince my wife to get the sex of the baby. I am not above bending the rules, Hippa can suck it. But I can’t find out without my wife. We are a family and this is something a family does together. Hossman Principle #1—never go against the family Frado.

I immediately answer “YES!” as my last ditch effort to change her mind. It’s like when they pass a bill in the Senate and some jackass adds a 4 million dollar onion museum grant in there at the last minute. No one will notice.

I am awaiting the filibuster when she looks at me and says yes to. I am overjoyed but I can’t help but think that she had always wanted this and has spent the last two months jerking my chain. But screw it, what do I care. If she got some entertainment out of it, so be it. I get to find the sex of my baby.

I am honestly open to either one. I know that is what parents are expected to say, again to not jinx the whole thing. But the first time around I wanted a son. Not that I don’t love my daughter, but I was 99% sure that I would be to rough on a daughter and wouldn’t be able to treat her as sweetly as she deserves. So the son would have been the guinea pig. As it turns out, my daughter has whipped me into shape and now I am nothing but a big softie when it comes to her.

The doc starts routing around with the magic wand that is the sonogram. He is going fast. The advice I give to all other parents is this: do not be intimidated by the doctor. You are paying for this shit so make him stop and smell the roses whenever the hell you feel like it. If he complains, tell him he’s fired and bring in someone else.

I make him count each individual finger and toe and make sure he points out each one to me. He normally does this, but we did it Sesame street style. One little finger, hahaha, Two little fingers, hahaha, and so on until I was sure that I could see and count each individual digit.

I had a check list in my head of the things that I wanted to see. It may sound morbid, but damit if we weren’t going to check all these things like it was preschool counting class. 2 kidneys, 1 heart, a brain, spinal cord, liver, 2 lungs, spleen, big intestine, small intestine, everything.

My kiddo has everything and we checked every single one. I know he wanted to just fly through this and then give the customary “it’s fine” response. Listen bub, I will give the “it’s fine” response when I know that it’s fine.

I give him the thumbs up when everything is “fine”.

Now for the big lookie lou. Penis or Vagina. The General or the Tweeter. Let’s have a look.

He scrolls down and starts shoving on my wife’s stomach. He is trying to get a different angle and it is taking some time. I find myself rooting for him. I want to make him a little sign that says “Doctor #1” and then cheer from the nosebleeds. I want to promise him a new contract, hookers and blow if he can get this done.

So then he gets the money shot. He moves it around a little more. I can’t see shit, TELL ME!

And we are having…………………………………………………….

We don’t know. For the love of God we don’t know. It turns out that my future child had the umbilical cord between his legs and it wouldn’t move. The doc couldn’t see if we were a football or a Barbie. SHIT SHIT SHIT. I have been thwarted from on high. 2 months of work down the tubes because now my wife is thinking that since we don’t already know, we might as well wait it out.
So maybe I won’t know who’s behind the curtain until the big day afterall. In the meantime, I’m buying an equal number of baseball gloves and ballerina outfits. But since my wife did say yes, I owe a nurse a 400 dollar purse. Donations welcome.

1 comment:

  1. Shannon I am so sorry, but once again I have to admit your (mis)adventures with parenthood provides me with high level entertainment....You should have offered Murphy a namesake and perhaps he wouldn't have been so mean spirted!