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There is nothing in the world like the unsolicited advice one receives the moment that the second line turns pink. While I am aware that I did not singularly invent pregnancy, nor am I carrying the Christ-child, I *have* been pregnant before, and have managed to raise a successful kindergartner (shit, we’re old), people still tend to forget and remind me about having a baby.

Specifically, why it sucks so much, which is the attitude I dislike most. Sure, you’re not apt to scare *me* about it, but what about the REAL newbies? They don’t need to hear about a 354 hour labor or 4th degree tears! Don’t scare ‘em until they’ve experienced it firsthand! Alas, I digress.

As kindly as I can, I try to answer their well-meaning questions and gently extract myself from the situation before having to talk about 1) vaginal discharge or 2) breast discharge. Yes, complete strangers do ask about such personal matters. Should they get too personal for me (especially if I am in the presence the XY contingent of my family), I simply begin to ask if their husbands still want to have sex with them, and if so, what is their favorite position? Shuts ‘em the hell up right quick.

Most recently, and if I remember the most common question that I get is regarding the baby’s sex. More specifically, when I explain that I do not know what I am having yet, they ask what I *want* to have. My answer is succinct enough, all right, but never seems to appease them entirely.

My answer is this: honestly? I don’t *care* what I have. And my reasons for finding out the sex? Simple. Not to BOND with the baby or some shit, but to be able to SHOP for the baby.

(I can hear the Pregnancy/Parenting Police among us collectively gasp in disgust. Don’t worry, your children are OBVIOUSLY better than mine. Feel better now?)

I have decided to put together a little list of the pros and cons of having either sex to prove to you that I am not secretly holding a candle for pink or blue.

Cuter clothes? Girls, hands down. Boy clothes are terrible, and take much work to scour racks looking for something worthwhile. To be fair, I do own a fuckton of boys clothes (and nothing else) which would be very economical, but even THEY don’t compare to the cuteness that is girl clothes.

Cuter toys? Boys. Really, I hated dolls when *I* was a kid, and I don’t want Disney Princess or Bratz shit in my house.

Diapering? Girls. I have gotten whizzed on my face many freaking times it’s not even funny. PLUS, cleaning liquid shit from the twig and giggle berries takes for freaking ever. Balls= crease laden.

Temperament? Boys. Girls are fucking dramatic and whiny, boys tend to solve their problems with fists rather than having to ‘talk about it.’ Sheesh, do I *look* like I can handle that shit? I don’t like to *talk about things,* I like to use my fists o’ fury.

Relationship later in life? TIE. Girls are assholes when they’re teenagers (just ask me. I know. I was one), but become your friends when they’re older. Boys are not assholes (to their mothers) as teens, but are lost to you once they get married.

Genitals? Girls, again. Why? Because I share the same parts. I can teach you to clean your labia. It’s a nice swipe. Cleaning The Penis is hard. As is teaching The Penis to stand up and pee without whizzing all over your freshly laundered towels while you shriek for your penis-laden husband to come and help, which he does not do and does not understand why a Penis is needed to help a Penis pee in the toilet. (sense a pattern here? I do.)

Dating? Boys, but by a hair. While I almost made it a tie, as with a Girl I will have to worry about my poor husband weeping silently while polishing his shotgun, I remembered one key fact. My son will not come home pregnant. Nor *should* he get too weepy and brooding when he is dumped.

Blah, blah, blah, beauty in either sex, squirt squirt.

I can’t wait to find out so I can get my shop-on!

When I was pregnant with my first, on a random doctor’s appointment, my OB (who had said, um, *maybe* 15 words to me during the whole pregnancy, but I didn’t care because Dr. Google kept me company, and who cares if your doctor holds your hand and tells you everything is okay? Not me.) heard something he didn’t like on my fetal doppler.

Apparently the fetal heart tones were not acceptable. Having not been able to pinpoint exactly WHAT was wrong with the heartbeat myself due to my non-trained ears, I just accepted it as well as my referral for an ultrasound the following day.

Which is how I planned to learn what flavor baby I was carrying. While it wasn’t something I had to wait for, it was something I had been waiting for.

A couple of weeks ago, at my last OB appointment, we planned our Anatomy Scan, which sounds scary as fuck which will tell me if my baby is indeed fucked up and shit. Since I tend not to worry until I have to (yes, I can get colon cancer, get hit by a car, or win the lottery. Why worry about it until I need to?), I am masking my concern with the very real excitement of learning exactly what flavor I’m cooking.

Sadly, just the same as the last time I was pregnant, I have not been able to make this pregnancy real and I’m hoping that hot dog or lackthereof will.

November 16 at 10 am.

To make this interesting, as all good parents (should) do, we have made a bet.

Winner gets the satisfaction of knowing that they are far superior and the ability to rub it in the others face.

Loser gets the punishment ascribed by the winner. Punishments have been picked.

Dave: *Girl*. If he should lose, he will wear a Britney Spears t-shirt for one whole week during such time when it cannot be masked by a winter coat.

Becky: *Boy* (only to make this interesting. I still have no fucking clue). I will have to wear a ‘Chicks Dig Unix’ t-shirt for one week without being masked by a winter coat. (as a total aside, this shirt will have to be in a comically large size, as I’m certain Mimi or Pea In A Pod won’t carry it)

Representin’ colors must be worn to the anatomy scan.

Aww yeah, Daver’s bustin’ out the pink.

If I’d have known that getting pregnant could be so hard, I’d have skipped the birth control entirely. I should amend that: getting pregnant when you actually WANT to be pregnant can be hard. I don’t actually think that the last time I was pregnant really had resulted from having sex, but alas, I digress.

Now, like miscarriages and abortions, people don’t often bring up the ‘œgetting pregnant’ stuff with any regularity, unless of course they were successful with their first attempt a la ‘œMy boys can swim!’ etc. What they don’t tell you in health class is that sometimes you win, and sometimes you lose. When we first started trying, I admit that I was nervous. Like most things a la Becky, I tend to stick with my original plan regardless of circumstance and/or desire as I am one stubborn son of a bitch. I assumed (rightly so, considering my last experience) that the first time we’d have sex after going off birth control would result in a (small) bouncing new baby.

When I got my period, I was almost relieved. *Whew!* I thought, ‘œTHAT was a close one!’

The second month I was less so, but still relieved.

By the time I actually got pregnant, I was so blase about the whole thing that I took the test while smoking a cigarette and drinking a vodka/diet coke. I had inadvertantly bought the fancy assed digital pregnancy tests (they didn’t have THOSE 5 years ago!) that doesn’t leave you guessing (is that *really* a line? Shit. I can’t tell. It kinda looks like one in this light.). They are expensive as hell, so I was peeved to be using one to assuage my husband, as I *knew* that I was not pregnant. Hence the cigarette and vodka.

Well, I pissed on the stick, set it down and took a fat swig of my drink. After a few seconds, I double checked that I had properly executed the test (I’m telling you, it’s COMPLICATED), and while I was pondering the flashing bar (I am not so bright) the word ‘œPREGNANT’ popped up. I promptly spit-taked the drink all over the mirror and yelled ‘œYou’ve GOT to be fucking kidding me!’

One for the baby books, I know.

The proper way to tell Dave would have been by sending a singing candy gram or an engraved Tiffany’s rattle to his office (I have ideas, even I cannot execute them), I know, but I couldn’t have been more suprised if the dishwasher had sung Christmas Carols to me in perfect German. I was in no shape to suprise anyone else.

I unceramoniously shoved the stick under Dave’s nose and flopped down on the couch, clearly in shock. Where I sat for the next three hours, staring blankly at the test. When I finally came around 3 weeks later, I did a little research.

Some husbands give their wives jewelery for their birthdays. Mine gave me a healthy hot beef injection.

Due Date: April 9, 2007
Date of Conception: July 15, 2006 (God, I cannot wait to torture the child with this one!)

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