So, guys … it’s a boy! It’s a BOY! And you know what? I found out late last week. Though I wasn’t supposed to find out ’til today (and according to those at by OB’s office, I’m still in the dark about the baby’s gender), I found out this past Monday through a course of unpleasant events.

Let me bring you up to speed as to what my history is. I have a 3-year-old daughter, as some of you might know, and when I was pregnant with her, I went into pre-term labor at twenty-six weeks. Through no fault of my own, my diet or my surroundings, my cervix had begun its descent into rapid thinness weeks ahead of time. I’d begun cramping and by the time I finally went to the ER, it was so serious that they’d admitted me, administered steroid shots to my BUM AREA in order to speed up the baby’s lung development should she be born this early and pumped full of progesterone in order to prevent the contractions. Needless to say, the combination of the drugs and bed rest staved off my daughter’s birth until thirty-nine weeks, an accomplishment that is almost unbelievable in retrospect, considering how I felt at the time. She was born happy and healthy and I was, needless to say, relieved that everything had worked out as we’d hoped.

So. Last Friday night. I began cramping. And of course, based on previous history, I panicked. I immediately elevated my feet, called my OB and told them what was happening. They dismissed my concerns and told me to get some rest and call them back on Monday to update, unless something happened in between then and… well, then. Needless to say, the cramps only intensified and came to an apex on Monday night. After I’d vomited from either nerves or cramping, I said, “Screw this, I’m not even calling the doctor’s office – I’m going straight to the source (the hospital).” My parents came over to watch my daughter and my husband and I headed off to the hospital. Which, incidentally, is 25 to 40 minutes away, depending on traffic.

We arrived and I was pleased to see that it was the cleanest, most efficient, friendliest hospital I’d ever had the nervous pleasure of visiting. They checked my vitals, asked what the problem happened to be, what my history with my prior pregnancy was and who my OB was – all SOP. I was ushered into a room where I was asked to change into one of those horrible, awful hospital gowns with the split up the back, but assuming they wouldn’t be doing any kind of vaginal exam, I left my panties on (it was cold). They took blood, urine, blood and more blood. They took so much blood I’d wondered if I had any of the surplus I’d been storing since gestating my little friend.

While they awaited the test results, they wheeled me (yes, wheeled me – is there anything worse than being carted around in a wheelchair in the hospital when you’re perfectly capable of walking? Don’t answer that – yes, there are much worse things, I just don’t want to entertain those ideas right now) to a warm, darkened ultrasound room. It was about 11PM and I think the hospital had called this woman out of her nice, cozy bed to perform my ultrasound and I started to feel bad. She professionally covered me up, introduced herself and advised me that, unfortunately, she’d be unable to give me any information about the ultrasound and that the doctor would have to address all questions and concerns. I semi-tearfully nodded my head in nervous acknowledgment. She hemmed and hawed all the while she slid the bulbous ultrasound thing around my growing midsection and at the end of the session, probably sensing my apprehension, turned to me and my husband and said, “Well, as I said, I’m not supposed to say anything, but everything looks just fine – you, the baby, your cervix; it’s all okay.” I heaved a massive sigh of relief and decided to press my luck: “Did you happen to notice the sex?” She smiled a little bit and said, “Yes, honey. It’s a boy.”

Needless to say, my husband completely freaked in his own, quiet way – silent tears formed at the corners of his eyes and his face brightened with a glow I’ve only ever seen one other time – when we found out we were having a little girl, over four years ago. The tech wheeled us back to the room, where we awaited the doctor’s visit, and forgot all about cramps and thin cervixes and progesterone shots for a while while we mooned over the fact that we’re having a little boy. We contemplated the reactions of our family, namely our daughter. Boy, was she going to be pissed (she wasn’t). After twenty minutes or so, the doctor visited, telling me that the bloodwork was perfect and that my cramps were probably caused by a combination of overwork (even now I can barely sit still for ten minutes) and the presence of some bacteria in my urinary tract, which hadn’t yet turned into an infection, but would have if gone untreated. He prescribed an antibiotic as a precaution and sent us home.

Today was our “real” appointment for determining the baby’s sex and it was all we could do to avoid referring to the baby as “him,” or “he,” or worse, “Jack”. But the true irony occurred when the ultrasound tech at the doctor’s office was unable to tell us what the baby’s gender was because of his (ahem, I mean “its”) position in my uterus. It was almost as if Jack refused to show the woman what he was when he’d already been accommodating enough the other night to show the woman at the hospital.

As for the doctor’s staff at the office, they aren’t aware that we know we’re having a little boy. But after all that happened, I think it’s pretty poetic, don’t you?