I Hope to Never be the Subject of a Lifetime Movie

There really was no drama surrounding the decision to learn the gender of our child. Brooke wanted to know. I wanted to know. Done.

I know some people like the surprise of it all. My friend Fred was like that. Then he hit the jackpot, having a boy first and girl next. I’d love that. Two kids, both genders, and done. Sign me up for the vasectomy.

I, on the other hand, am lazy. I don’t want to have to rush around picking a name, buying the right clothes, choosing colors for the nursery, etc. on the day after he/she pops out. I gotta believe I will be busy enough with a newborn. God gave me nine months to wait for this child, I might as well use them productively. Knowing the gender helps me with that.

Now, a lot of people do ask you, “What are you hoping for?” Is there really a good answer to this? If I say boy and it turns out to be a girl, I am surrounded by glances of pity, like Maria Shriver gets any time she shows herself in public these days. By the way, how does something like THAT happen? That must have been one hell of a big house.

Anyway, I don’t want your pity. And I don’t want my daughter to hear some day in her teens that I wanted a boy. With the fragile nature of teen-agers, something like that could push her over the edge and I’d become the subject of a Lifetime television movie as I search the streets of Las Vegas looking for my hooker/drug addict daughter.

So I always answered with the cliché, “I just want a healthy child.” It is cliché, but true.  If you are a parent, you know this.

But this blog is about confessions, and, the truth is, I probably 51% wanted a boy. (Book my ticket to Las Vegas). I’m not sexist. I will love my daughter as much as I would have loved my son. And this is not about ego. I’ve met my biological father once since my mom and dad divorced when I was six months old, so there is no burning desire to carry on the name of a man whose only contribution to my life is the uni-brow I have to pluck every day.  

No, I wanted a son because I only know a lot about a few things. And one thing I know a lot about is being a boy and man.

I pause here to point out that I do know a little about a lot of things. I swear I could win at Jeopardy. As far back as college, my roommates and I would drink beer and keep score as we answered Jeopardy questions. To this day, I often watch with my wife and every time I answer a question before her and the TV contestants, I simply say, “Ssssssmoked.” This grates on her nerves. The other night, through clenched teeth, she told me, “I think it is time for you to go upstairs,” and we were only five minutes into the game. I was killing that night.

But, quite honestly, I could win Jeopardy only if it was a good day for “my” categories. Give me Presidents, Sports, Newspapers, Television Shows of the 80s and Pop Culture Icons and I clean up. If I’m staring up at Shakespeare, 18^th Century Artists, Muskrat Anatomy and Life on the Euphrates, forget about it.

But I know what it is like to be a male. Therefore, I would be able to relate better to a boy. I know sports and playing “army” and picking up chicks and losing your hair. I know nothing about tea parties, talking on the phone all day, having a million pillows on your bed and, for god sakes, menstrual cramps.

Not that I am stereotyping. My daughter might become the best high school basketball player in the Cincinnati area – boy or girl. She might skip ballet class for trips to the Reds game. She might shun tea parties for playing army. I am just going by the percentages here. Chances are, she will eventually drag me to a concert to see the latest version of New Kids on the Block.

So there you have it. Confession number three. I wanted to a boy. But I got a girl. And, quite honestly, I couldn’t be more excited. When I heard those words, my heart melted. Once you know, your pre-conceived notions go right out the window. You start dreaming about the possibilities, not the limitations.

I’m having a girl. And I could not be happier.