I’m sure everyone has heard the story about the “man” who is pregnant, so I’ll not reiterate it here (it was on Oprah yesterday. Shut up! I was sick on the couch. It was either Miss Thang or Montel Williams. In retrospect, stabbing myself in the scalp with a fork would have been more entertaining).
Anyway, it got me to thinking about the gender thing. As I’ve mentioned before, we’re not finding out the gender of bebe. This has less to do with gender politics than it does with our desire to simply wait and have the surprise, but (can I be honest, dear reader?? go right ahead, speaketh the ever-so-magnanimous internet) it is driving me crazy.
It’s not the anticipation, or the romantic musing while sorting crocheted baby socks and knitting heirloom swaddling blankets (cause, you know, I’m all home ec up in hee-yah). It’s the planning of the whole thing. And yes, I know, I always said I wasn’t one of those. You know, the moms who come prepared with the plastic bags for the wipeouts, the cute diapering sets, and the pacifier holders. The ones who use those special hangers to identify 0-3 month clothing from 3-6 month clothing. Ye exalted beacons of preparedness that have the nonspill snack cups and car seat protectors (in colors coordinating with their cute Britax pattern).
I have to (gulp) eat my words. It DOES bother me (hanging head in PC shame), this not-knowing! And I have to ask myself if I have subtle, hidden gender issues lying at the root of all this. Though we are buying cute things for the baby in blue, green, and yellow, I’m not quite so evolved as to buy rosy pink and puffed sleeves, because Dear Lord, what if it’s a HE? And what if we irrevocably screw with some essential part of his manhood (see my posting on circumcision- *ehem*) by dressing him in pink? And what will people think??? And am I supposed to care???
So just how important is this gender dyslexia? Oprah would have us believe that the acceptance and praise of a relationship where the “man” is carrying the child is an indication of how far we have progressed as a species. So should I be OK with “Diva in training” on the front of my son’s pink onesie? Or should I be throwing out those purple socks in fear that he will, some day, suffer from this very-PC-though-somewhat-confusing ambiguity?
*Sigh*. I need a donut. Or a fork to the scalp.