It’s a mere 7 weeks until we get to meet the newest addition to the Meier-Verlander house, and my body’s temperature regulation couldn’t be more thrilled. It’s rainy season in Cambodia right now, which means that nighttime gets a bit cooler, but I can’t find the happy medium between shivering under the A/C, or sprawled out in a puddle of sweat.
That’s not the only thing that’s making me a little antsy for the next 7 weeks. Yes, yes, there’s that whole “impending motherhood” thing, but what I’m REALLY looking forward to is the nonstop speculation of whether we’re having a boy or girl, and what that boy or girl should be named.
From the very beginning, I was adamant on knowing the baby’s sex. But, as time went on, I was talked out of it by both Lee, and some hippie midwives who said “if ultrasounds were necessary, we’d have a window into our bellies.” They also scared me a little by linking the rise in diagnosed Autism to the invention of the ultrasound. I said, “OK, OK FINE,” and Lee got his way. Afterall, we’ll find out when the baby’s born.
Little did I know that every person on Earth is a baby psychic. If I had to estimate, ONE MILLION women have, at some point in our conversations, claimed to be really good at “telling.” They can just tell. Their friend was pregnant and they looked at her belly and said, “GIRL” and it was a girl. Then another friend was pregnant and they looked at her belly and said, “BOY” and it was a boy. If you ask me, these women are clearly underestimating their powers of prediction and are, actually, willing the babies’ sex organs into place.
Of course, some people are a little more scientific. Am I craving sweet or sour food? What’s the baby’s heart rate? When did your belly button poked out? When you spit into laundry detergent, which direction did it fall? Southeast? IT’S A BOY!
This is my official declaration: if I’m ever pregnant again, I’m finding out the sex of the baby just to shut these conversations down.