It’s come to my attention that there are two types of pregnant
people in this world: those who find out the gender of their child
as soon as they can and go around calling their stomach
”
Tommy
”
or
”
Jennifer
”
for the next nine months; and those who refuse to find out the
gender of their child one nanosecond before the actual birth,
no-matter-what.
It’s come to my attention that there are two types of pregnant people in this world: those who find out the gender of their child as soon as they can and go around calling their stomach “Tommy” or “Jennifer” for the next nine months; and those who refuse to find out the gender of their child one nanosecond before the actual birth, no-matter-what.
Let me just stop right here a minute and say that I, in no way, advocate one choice over another. I firmly believe it’s a personal choice that should be left to the parents.
But, that said, what I don’t understand is why the very same people who refuse to look at the sonogram screen in the doctor’s office are perfectly fine with relying on Old Wives Tales to predict their baby’s gender.
Take, for instance, my friend Linda who tried to find out what she was having by twirling a needle on a string over her stomach.
“It’s a girl,” she announced gleefully over the phone. “The needle spun in circles.”
She was so sure, in fact, that she painted the nursery pink and stenciled ballerina bunnies on the walls. But, as luck would have it, when she tried it again two months later, the needle moved in a straight line, mostly between the refrigerator and television set. And everyone knows what THAT means.
The other day my friend Linda, who’s now six months pregnant, said to me over coffee, “I’ve tried everything. According to the needle test I’m having a boy, the Lunar calendar says I’m having a girl, the heartbeat test falls somewhere between a boy and a girl, and the Drano test doesn’t say anything at all, but it smells really, really bad,” she sighed. “I don’t know what to believe anymore.”
“Then why don’t you save yourself the trouble and just ask the doctor?” I asked.
“What?” she said. “And spoil the mystery? Every parent knows that the gender of your child is the one greatest mystery in the world. Why would I want to go and ruin it?”
Granted I could’ve mentioned that she was a person who just mixed urine with Drano to see if it would make green.
But instead I said simply, “You’re right.”
With pregnant women, sometimes that’s the best way.
