Friday, December 7, 2007
Mischief Is My Middle Name
Next week is E's 15 week OB appointment. This is maybe the most bizarre milestone yet. She is officially in her second trimester. I cannot overcome the feeling of disbelief that she is pregnant and our life has transitioned from trying to get E pregnant to her actually experiencing pregnancy.
I feel a bit lost in the woods sometimes. I think because she is just beginning to show, and it has been so many weeks since we had confirmation that all is well, it's difficult to entirely release myself to the idea of parenthood. Holy uncharted territory, batman.
A friend has told me that it may feel more real when we know the sex. I've heard conflicting reports on whether or not the sex will be visible at 15 weeks.
It is endlessly thrilling to wonder at the sex; and also, like Charlotte said recently, it feels crazy luxurious.
E recently decided she hopes it is a girl. This is classic for reasons disclosed below.
I would prefer a boy. Not because I'm into sports and stuff. In fact, I sort of hate playing sports. I have a major block about partaking in activities at which I suck. I HATE to suck at things, so much, in fact, that I'll avoid doing them at all costs. Softball? Suck. Won't do it. Football? Can't throw a decent spiral for shit. Won't do it. Golf? I will curse, then beat the earth with my leaden club. I loathe it. Because I suck.
So, if we had a son, I would totally shirk the required Saturday afternoons of "playing catch," and I'd likely show up with a buzz and a flask if I had to go to a bunch of Little League games.
But before you think I'm a lump of sodden potato fermenting on the couch, know that there are sports at which I excel. I know how to ride horses. And I rock - hard - at Badminton. How hot is that?
And if Rough-Housing and Horsing-Around count as sports, then I would be Champion of the Universe. Actually, I have been known to be such a starship shenaniganster that I have developed a reputation for unintentionally riling up other people's pets. I can't help it. It is my sheer enthusiasm for messing around that radiates from me and infects unassuming nearby animals. Dogs and horses alike respond to my presence by Acting Fresh.
One of my all-time favorite activities is riding a high-strung horse on a windy day adjacent to a corn field. Whee!
E stifles this aspect of my personality. She is the Anti-Horser-Arounder. She quashes my revelries with the dog with stern shouting, furrowed eyebrows, and a well-aimed pointer finger. In response, I call out that my spirit will not be broken and we, dog and human renegades, depart for the park across the street.
So if E has a boy, it would totally be two against one on the tomfoolery front.
In any case, the Chinese Fertility Calendar, in which I am a big believer, tells us that lentil is a boy. Mystery solved. Unless you consider the "mother" to be the egg donor. In that case, lentil is a girl. Mystery unsolved.
Again, hark! the luxury. I love that this is a total mystery. Part of me doesn't want to know at all, because somehow I feel like knowing the sex will suddenly make the reality of impending parenthood a bit more of the Crashing About My Head variety. For some reason having the ability to picture the kid as a boy or a girl magnifies the image of said child talking ceaselessly into my ear.
But as things stand now, I'm doing really well with our kid...lemon-sized and silent, you know.
I wonder if my powers of spreading hyperactivity will permeate E's womb.