Lately with all the positive news from the doctor about the progress of the pregnancy and mine and the baby’s health, my mind has been able to take a break from worrying and focus entirely on the gender of Bebe. As we all know, the more I think about it the more likely the sky will open up and reveal the news of the baby’s sex prior to the 20 week ultrasound. So I’m just expediting the miracle.
We decided to call the baby “Bebe” until (s)he is born, although it’ll likely be named within 20 seconds of us finding out what his/her gender is, but let’s be honest: a more apt name for the little thing gestating within me is “Pat.” A sexless mass of person whose androgyny perplexes and obsesses all who behold it.
And by “all” I mean me. I would just like to assign a sex to this kid so I can have the luxury of fantasizing about all the *joys* of gender-specific issues we’ll have to deal with throughout the baby’s adolescent years, such as the introduction of the jock strap and the first period. Yes, these are the things the expectant parent relishes.
Last night, though, I did have the first dream I can remember about the sex of Pat – err – Bebe.
And he was a boy. We’ll see. And hopefully everyone else will clearly see as well.