Since discovering that the wife was pregs with Part Deuce, my focus (in the stereotypical spirit of an emotionless male preoccupied solely with solutions, not feelings) has concentrated almost exclusively on selling our condo and finding a house ... with a driveway ... and grass. So, the thought of Gigi's sequel has been extremely slow to absorb.
For weeks, I knew that we had an ultrasound appointment at 8 a.m. this morning. We were going to learn about our next baby's sex. Unfortunately, in the interim, I somehow scheduled a 10 a.m. work appointment immediately after. Minus ten points right there, dad.
Southie to Brookline is approximately 4 miles. No train goes between them directly, so driving is really the only option. Due to my work thing, the baby mama and I took separate cars. 40 minutes and 4 miles later, I miraculously found a meter spot.
"Usually, these ultrasound visits are no more than a half hour," I thought. It was 7:55 a.m.
Me: [Standing idly sans coffee in my system.]
Me: [Staring at the meter but not really reading.]
Me: [Squinting and staring without focus.]
Me: [Coming to and slapping 4 quarters for 60 minutes. Plenty of time.]
The wife and I met shortly therafter and arrive together at the waiting room. The most recent olympic SI issue beckoned to me as soon as we entered. She checked in - I dove in to the photos first and articles second.
Like any random group of professionals, doctors are mostly good and decent, some great, and a few who constitute the rotten apples that spoil it for the rest of the crew. I am, unfairly, prejudiced against doctors until they have proved themselves worthy of my trust. Admittedly, the bias is rooted in a jealousy that they were able to pass chemistry in college (my original major was "undecided" but leaning towards pre-med freshman year until encountering Chem II) but mostly because I detest waiting for anything and no medical office on the face of this earth sees any patient on time.
Miraculously, we only waited until 8:10 a.m. for our 8 a.m. appointment to begin. The assistant pulled a fresh sheet of paper over the examination bed and my baby mama - a seasoned pro - immediately recognized the drill. She hopped on, pulled down her pants to the hips, exposing the slight bump in her belly as her shirt moved up, while the assistant tucked more paper around for modesty's sake. The assistant left.
We sat alone together. It was quiet. We waited. Suddenly, the wife looked at me and smiled energetically. I widened my eyes lazily and raised my brows to reply without speaking.
"Aren't you so excited? We're finding out if there's a penis or a vagina!"
I was about to smile and chuckle when the doctor came in. Naturally, she acknowledged only the wife and pretended I'm not in the room. I was annoyed. I hate when they do that.
Granted, my ankles aren't swollen and I haven't puked without warning because I suddenly smelled my husband's hungover breath, but my DNA is in 50% of that creature swimming around in utero - and I drove 40 minutes to get here! I remembered how much doctors annoy me again.
They spoke here and there. My mind drifted to the 10 a.m. appointment. "Should I try the parking lot across from work or resident parking?," I thought. "Oh man, Huntington's going to be a freaking nightmare when I get out of here." The inner monologue continued similarly.
About 20 minutes later (the clock on the flatscreen for the ultrasound image said 8:35 a.m.) after the doctor has referred to our baby as a "she" at least twice, she asked if we want to know the sex.
"Yes!" we replied almost sheepishly, just like in the operating room the night G was born. The doctor replied, "You're having a ... boy." Her emphasis on the word "boy" was subtle and gentle. It wasn't the first time she delivered such news. The wife began to cry immediately and squeezed my hand.
Ever the cyborg, I asked "What is the plus/minus that you're wrong about the sex?" Probably not the greatest opening comment. Then, the wife piped in about hermaphrodite percentages and I think the doctor winced noticeably. Next, I asked if the baby's dong was unusually large. She said something about a third leg and genetics, while I nodded understandingly.
Okay, the plus/minus and hermaphrodite parts were true and the rest wasn't. But the moral of the story is I didn't talk for 20 minutes. When I spoke for the first time, the doctor got all annoyed at me. I stewed and thought again about my 10:00. The mean doctor threw me off my game.
The rest of our appointment is a blur. The wife and I kissed and high fived. I ran to the car. Phew, no ticket. I drove behind a Green Line E train for what seemed to be forever and arrived for my appointment barely at 9:55 a.m.
About ten minutes into the deposition and the important news finally began to penetrate my thick skull. We are having a boy. We are having a boy! Wow. It's hitting me now. WE ARE HAVING A BOY. Sweet.
Will Sanchez still be QB when he starts to watch the NFL? Will Jeter still be captain when he starts to watch MLB? Will we talk about women, sports, geography, or music? Will we compete and argue and laugh? Will he ever love me like I already love him?
Okay, it's hit me. We're having another baby - and it's a boy!
Thinking back, the doctor was annoyed she couldn't get a good view of T2 because he moved around so much. Nice work, bud. Let's pick this back up in July.