Let's talk about sex. No, not that kind.

Here is a superficial example of how infertility has changed me.  Before infertility, before I learned what a gift any baby is, before I began to perceive how loaded the question is, I'm pretty sure I asked more than one expectant parent, "Are you hoping for a boy or a girl?"

I don't ask it anymore.  I mean, what a nonsensical question, as if the answer actually carried any kind of weight.  "We'd like a boy."  Okay, so...what then, exactly?  You're going to set a girl infant out on an ice floe to be adopted by a friendly band of polar bears who will take her into their loving tribe and raise her as one of their own?  "We'd like a girl."  Ah, I see, you've got something against boys.  It's true, everyone knows they mouth off, track in mud, and set fires in buildings they swear they thought were abandoned.

No.  Neither of these extremes is ever what a parent-to-be means.  When one does have a preference, I get the sense that it's inevitably complicated, having to do with our own experiences growing up, the personalities of any children we may already have, and our feelings about gender as a social construct — in short, a unique, personal opinion that can't, and probably shouldn't, be summed up in the kind of casual conversation where this question usually pops up.

Beyond being meaningless, the question strikes me as kind of sadistic.  After all, the question presents a gilt-edged invitation to show your ass; 50% of the time you're not going to get what you said you wanted.  Oh, you'll be fine with that, even if you need some time to adjust.  But someone's going to remember how fervently you'd wanted another set of tackle entirely.  (If they're cruel enough to remind you of it later, you have my full permission to relieve them of the burden of theirs.)

But we ask it, largely, I suspect, because we don't know what else to say but want to show an interest.  How do you talk about a baby who's not here yet, about whom nothing is known, whose personality will remain a mystery for some time even after his birth?  Do you hope the baby will be smart?  Empathetic?  Resilient?  Good-natured?  Well, sure, who doesn't?  But for now a boy, or a girl, will do.

...

Even being sure I'd asked it myself at some point, I had no idea until recently how common the question was.  I was asked it an awful lot when we recently went south, by relatives I hadn't seen in years.  The assumption seemed to be that we wanted a girl, since we already have a boy.  That the experience of raising a girl would be qualitatively different, and something I'd not want to miss out on.

That may be true; I wouldn't know.  It's hard to imagine, because I don't think of Charlie as a boy, if that makes any sense.  I don't identify his fundamental personhood as belonging to one gender or another.  If he likes to extend both his pointers in the double-shooty-finger gesture, for example, I don't see it as the manifestation of an innate testosterone-borne lust for violence; I just know it for a stupid trick I taught him when I noticed the disco potential of his partially zipped pajamas.  (Not pictured: enormous medallion, chest hair, and coked-out girlfriend.  Or boyfriend.)  That he is occasionally bouncy and loud I chalk up to the fact that his body needs regular exercise and a venue where noisemaking is not only allowed but encouraged.  His love for helping in the kitchen and doing housework is not a sign of any gender affiliation; rather it's the mark of a three-year-old's eagerness to do what his parents are doing.  He is a boy, but I see his sex as incidental to the person he's becoming, rather than utterly essential.  I seem him as simply — simply! — Charlie.

Ultimately, I can't fathom a girl being any different.  I know many people feel that girls are intrinsically different from boys, that biology implies destiny to a certain degree.  I know there are forces beyond my control that influence how our children grow up and what roles they eventually assume.  I also know that the only reason I might feel especially eager to raise a girl is so that I could dress her like a clown.  And if the shape of Charlie's genitalia hasn't stopped me from doing that to him, and it hasn't, I don't feel that's sufficient reason to formulate a preference in that direction.

So when I was asked the question numerous times, I'd staunchly answer, "Doesn't matter."  But I was surprised to find that wasn't enough for people.  They expected me to follow it up.  When I didn't, they'd fill in the platitude themselves: "...as long as it's healthy, right?"

And then I'd think, Well, right.  If it's healthy, we'll take either kind, but if it's going to come with a few dings in the paint and a cigarette burn in the floor mat, then it better also come with a weenus. 

Which is, of course, not at all what the asker meant, but because I'm an asshole, I just couldn't ignore what a weird construction that is, what a very strange thing to say.  No, what the person invariably meant is, If we dare to ask for anything, let it be for health.  And that is a hope I can cop to.

...

So far, so mercifully good.  Our detailed ultrasound — our congenital anomalies scan, our gosh-Julie-why-are-your-palms-so-sweaty? scan — went off without a hitch.  All four chambers of the heart, each chamber thrumming, each valve a-flapping, were visible and functioning.  The vitally important parts of the brain, which is to say all of them, were noted.  Abdominal organs were present and suitably enclosed.  What the doctor swore were kidneys were there, even if they didn't look like any kidney I've ever eaten.  All limbs, all digits, all vertebrae, flexing and accounted for.

And at the very end, a shadowy sac between his swishing legs.  I cried, not in disappointment or elation, but in relief, at the whole of what we learned.  All is well.  If I dare to ask for anything, let it be for health, let it all stay well, for this son, this brother, this boy.

Posted by Julie at 12:26:02 PM in Jesus gay, I'm pregnant.

Comments

Let's talk about sex. No, not that kind.

Here is a superficial example of how infertility has changed me.  Before infertility, before I learned what a gift any baby is, before I began to perceive how loaded the question is, I'm pretty sure I asked more than one expectant parent, "Are you hoping for a boy or a girl?"

I don't ask it anymore.  I mean, what a nonsensical question, as if the answer actually carried any kind of weight.  "We'd like a boy."  Okay, so...what then, exactly?  You're going to set a girl infant out on an ice floe to be adopted by a friendly band of polar bears who will take her into their loving tribe and raise her as one of their own?  "We'd like a girl."  Ah, I see, you've got something against boys.  It's true, everyone knows they mouth off, track in mud, and set fires in buildings they swear they thought were abandoned.

No.  Neither of these extremes is ever what a parent-to-be means.  When one does have a preference, I get the sense that it's inevitably complicated, having to do with our own experiences growing up, the personalities of any children we may already have, and our feelings about gender as a social construct — in short, a unique, personal opinion that can't, and probably shouldn't, be summed up in the kind of casual conversation where this question usually pops up.

Beyond being meaningless, the question strikes me as kind of sadistic.  After all, the question presents a gilt-edged invitation to show your ass; 50% of the time you're not going to get what you said you wanted.  Oh, you'll be fine with that, even if you need some time to adjust.  But someone's going to remember how fervently you'd wanted another set of tackle entirely.  (If they're cruel enough to remind you of it later, you have my full permission to relieve them of the burden of theirs.)

But we ask it, largely, I suspect, because we don't know what else to say but want to show an interest.  How do you talk about a baby who's not here yet, about whom nothing is known, whose personality will remain a mystery for some time even after his birth?  Do you hope the baby will be smart?  Empathetic?  Resilient?  Good-natured?  Well, sure, who doesn't?  But for now a boy, or a girl, will do.

...

Even being sure I'd asked it myself at some point, I had no idea until recently how common the question was.  I was asked it an awful lot when we recently went south, by relatives I hadn't seen in years.  The assumption seemed to be that we wanted a girl, since we already have a boy.  That the experience of raising a girl would be qualitatively different, and something I'd not want to miss out on.

That may be true; I wouldn't know.  It's hard to imagine, because I don't think of Charlie as a boy, if that makes any sense.  I don't identify his fundamental personhood as belonging to one gender or another.  If he likes to extend both his pointers in the double-shooty-finger gesture, for example, I don't see it as the manifestation of an innate testosterone-borne lust for violence; I just know it for a stupid trick I taught him when I noticed the disco potential of his partially zipped pajamas.  (Not pictured: enormous medallion, chest hair, and coked-out girlfriend.  Or boyfriend.)  That he is occasionally bouncy and loud I chalk up to the fact that his body needs regular exercise and a venue where noisemaking is not only allowed but encouraged.  His love for helping in the kitchen and doing housework is not a sign of any gender affiliation; rather it's the mark of a three-year-old's eagerness to do what his parents are doing.  He is a boy, but I see his sex as incidental to the person he's becoming, rather than utterly essential.  I seem him as simply — simply! — Charlie.

Ultimately, I can't fathom a girl being any different.  I know many people feel that girls are intrinsically different from boys, that biology implies destiny to a certain degree.  I know there are forces beyond my control that influence how our children grow up and what roles they eventually assume.  I also know that the only reason I might feel especially eager to raise a girl is so that I could dress her like a clown.  And if the shape of Charlie's genitalia hasn't stopped me from doing that to him, and it hasn't, I don't feel that's sufficient reason to formulate a preference in that direction.

So when I was asked the question numerous times, I'd staunchly answer, "Doesn't matter."  But I was surprised to find that wasn't enough for people.  They expected me to follow it up.  When I didn't, they'd fill in the platitude themselves: "...as long as it's healthy, right?"

And then I'd think, Well, right.  If it's healthy, we'll take either kind, but if it's going to come with a few dings in the paint and a cigarette burn in the floor mat, then it better also come with a weenus. 

Which is, of course, not at all what the asker meant, but because I'm an asshole, I just couldn't ignore what a weird construction that is, what a very strange thing to say.  No, what the person invariably meant is, If we dare to ask for anything, let it be for health.  And that is a hope I can cop to.

...

So far, so mercifully good.  Our detailed ultrasound — our congenital anomalies scan, our gosh-Julie-why-are-your-palms-so-sweaty? scan — went off without a hitch.  All four chambers of the heart, each chamber thrumming, each valve a-flapping, were visible and functioning.  The vitally important parts of the brain, which is to say all of them, were noted.  Abdominal organs were present and suitably enclosed.  What the doctor swore were kidneys were there, even if they didn't look like any kidney I've ever eaten.  All limbs, all digits, all vertebrae, flexing and accounted for.

And at the very end, a shadowy sac between his swishing legs.  I cried, not in disappointment or elation, but in relief, at the whole of what we learned.  All is well.  If I dare to ask for anything, let it be for health, let it all stay well, for this son, this brother, this boy.