sexing the soup dumpling
we've decided to go in and find out what the sex of our unborn spawn is. last time around we opted to be surprised. the 10 months of my bridebird's first pregnancy constituted a delicious exercise in suspense, terror, thrills and baited breath. this resulted in a fairly hilarious birth story that we'll be dining out on until our daughter herself gives birth. i'm too lazy to look it up and link to it now, but suffice it to say, it culminated in an orgiastically joyous blood-spilling release of anxiety.
anyway, we're too tired for all that shit this time around. we want to know. we want to know if we have enough hand-me-downs. we want to know what stripe of sibling to tell our first born she should be prepared to torture for the next 80 years. we want as few surprises this time around as our fragile, addled psyches can take.
also, neither of us can agree on a name this time around, so we want to narrow the field of options by half (or, i guess given that we live in park slope, by one-eighth).
so in 12 short hours, i'll know the sex of the sea turtle floating in my spouse's belly. i'll know the flavor of our soup dumpling. i'll know if i'll be spending the rest of my life coming home to a household of lovely ladies ... or son who must ultimately annihilate me (hey dutch, congrats).
i do have some ambivalence about finding out. it just doesn't feel natural. but we are both too tired to resist the ineluctable. we submit. bring it on.