Sometimes a hunch is just a hunch

If predicting the gender of your children were a stock, I’d be the poorest soul on Wall Street. Because frankly, my hunches have been horrible. I’m 0 for 3, and given that this is my and Kelly’s final trip down the Reproductive Highway, I’m retiring with a dismal record.

For those who have yet to hear, we decided rather spontaneously last week to break tradition and find out the sex of Z Kid Three. Without further ado, it is…(Drum roll, please!)…a girl.

Two princesses under one roof? That’ll be, um, interesting. As a defensive measure, Zach and I are already stockpiling baseball cards, punk rock mp3s, and Beavis and Butthead DVDs, and once we move into our new house, we’re looking to establish an exclusive Men's Room in hopes that we might actually be able to use a restroom when we want to.

Joking aside, that we’re having another girl was not the news I’d been hoping for. Kelly was primarily wishing for a boy, too, and Zach was downright insisting on one—a stark contrast to last time, when he told us to leave any boy baby at the hospital. But temporary disappointment aside, we will of course unconditionally love (Insert unchosen name here, which will now obviously not be “Zane.”). And, as the last kid in the nest, she will probably work the “Daddy’s Girl” thing to the hilt as time goes by. Undoubtedly it will work, even as I fight the urge to turn her into a tomboy.

Still, I was shocked when we got the news, and to a degree, I still am. Just ask my mother, who was in attendance during the 3-D ultrasound (video to follow shortly), the occasion during which we decided to peer through the oven door and check on the sex of our nearly-cooked bun. I was the first to see it, and while I didn’t fall over, I felt as if I might. I’m absolutely sure my head was spinning a full 360 degrees on my shoulders, saliva flying every which way as my jawbone fell faster than the president’s approval ratings. Never having gone through the experience before Delivery Day, I was not prepared for what I’d feel—especially since I was sure it was a boy.

But as I said, my instincts in this realm are apparently very weak. And that fact has set up an interesting dynamic for meeting one’s child—or in the latest case, taking a pre-meeting peek.

During each of Kelly’s pregnancies, I’ve had strong intuitive feelings about the sex of the baby. Maybe every expectant parent does—I don’t know. But for someone like me who embarked on the Goodship Parenthood with more than a bit of trepidation to have such strong visions of who and what they’d be has been almost surreal. I’ve dreamt about each of them, felt compelled to begin gender-specific shopping for them, and almost felt like I could see right into Kelly’s belly and know that yes, this is what we’d be having. And of course, in each case I’ve been wrong, paving the way for a broad range of emotions—and adjustments—when I’ve met the little suckers.

When Kelly finally talked me into having a baby, I, like most guys, just new it meant one thing (with apologies to the grandparents): lots of whoopee. No problem so far! But when it came time to pay the piper and I found out Kelly was pregnant, all mental and emotional hell broke loose inside of me. Up until then, when asked, I’d always said, “Oh, sure, I want to have kids.” But the realization that it was really going to happen convinced me that this was the ball and chain that would force me to abandon all spontaneity in my life and basically become (Gasp!) a Grownup. The horror.

From the moment I found out, I was absolutely convinced that the little demon who would lead to my demise was a girl. I don’t know why, but I knew in my heart of hearts that it would be. Much as I tried to envision—and wanted—a boy to pal around with, play ball and “pull my finger” jokes with, etc., it just wasn’t going to happen. And Kelly must have felt it, too, because we quickly settled on a girl’s name (“Peyton”), oohed and aahed over frilly pink dresses as we shopped, and otherwise prepared to parent a daughter.

But then it was a Zach. And I literally did not believe it until I saw the appendage dangling between his legs. We had a boy. Wow. That the doctors and nurses had to whisk him away first to an incubator and then to ICU only delayed the onset of reality that in spite of my expectations, I’d gotten what I’d wanted all along. And that I had seemed very odd. Here I’d been prepared to accept a girl into my heart, and I got a boy. Maybe it was guilt over hoping for one—or maybe it was just being a first-time parent—but given the situation, it was a few days before I could say out loud “I have a son,” believe it, and not feel ashamed for being glad.

Flash forward a few years, and Kelly was pushing me to give Zach a brother or sister. I was apprehensive, figuring we had it good, and believing no kid could top Zach. But a part of me felt that if we could have a girl, things would be perfect—symmetrical, socially harmonious, with a Daddy’s Girl to spoil on top of it all. It sounded like paradise. Yet, once Kelly was pregnant, I once again “knew” what we’d be having, and it sure wasn’t a girl. Of course, I was off the mark again, and the instant she made her debut, all I could say in disbelief to Kelly was, “We have a Zoë.” I was elated, even if parenting a girl frightened me to no end.

Given my track record, you can understand why, once the womb-illuminating sound waves had quieted last week, I really wasn’t surprised that I’d been off base again. However, the difference this time was that, for a change, I was expecting what I wanted but got something else, rather than vice versa. At least initially, that was hard to handle, and it made my “wants” seem insignificant and me feel powerless. Maybe it’s payback for wanting a boy so badly. Or maybe it’s that I ignored what I think was working for me in the past—simple Freudian defense mechanisms, in which I subconsciously denied what I wanted so I’d accept what I didn’t. I’m not really sure. But in the end, the “whys” didn’t really matter.

So did I really want a boy this time? You betcha. But that’s a large part of why I wanted to know what the stork was bringing ahead of time this go-round. Knowing the kiddo’s gender before it’s lying in my arms allows me to forget about my trivial wants and reminds me that this is about him...er, her...not me. Freed from the anxiety of delivery room gender surprises, I’m able to await her arrival simply as my child, regardless of her sex. And aware of what’s coming, I’m even able to get excited about it.

And it seems to have worked. Within a couple of days of getting the news, I was at the store with Kelly, happily thumbing through the frillier blankets, sleepers, and car seats—all pink. And, in those rare moments I have to daydream (technically nightdream, since it’s typically at 3 a.m.), I imagine myself meeting her prom date and, if I really push, dancing that first dance every father dreams about at her wedding reception, just as I have with Zoë. No boy? So be it. Be healthy and happy, Z Girl Two. I’m going to love you like only your daddy can.

Now if we could just solve that name thing. In the end, that may be the toughest hurdle of all to clear. But hey, if I can handle the prospect of sharing bathrooms with three females, I can handle anything!