At this precise time tomorrow you will find me either Dougie’ing in the middle of traffic in front of the Calgary courthouse or weeping uncontrollably in a Starbuck’s bathroom.
At 8:30, Melissa and I return to the clinic to find out the baby’s gender. I’ve conditioned myself to label the child’s masculinity or femininity as its ”gender” instead of “sex” – especially when writing. I don’t want to wake up one Sunday morning inhaling diffusing tear gas canisters hurled through a smashed window by the Cyber Police nor do I want to attract perverts from the search engines. Trust me, they’re out there. As it stands, the sixth most searched term leading surfers to my blog is “big wet booty” despite my not ever mentioning the aforementioned posteriors in any previous post.
I’ve burned through a couple of books on fatherhood this last month and the magnitude of the situation, – catastrophic if the books are to be believed – led me to try to organize a battle plan of sorts. I’ve made lists of things babies need (a mesh roof to put over the crib while I watch basketball), a budget (cut drinking expenditure from $450 per month to $445) and general child rearing tips (if you must beat the child, try using a phone book).
I was once adamant on having a boy. A girl would be an affront on my masculinity and after looking at my smooth, hairless chest and silken legs, I can’t afford no more affronts, ya dig?
But as Gender Day 2012 draws near, I’ve found I don’t care as much. If it is, in fact, a girl, I have at least a decade of good living before I’m arrested for dragging her potential suitors down to the basement, which I will have fashioned into a makeshift Hart Dungeon. I’d love to see a twelve-year-old boy in a suit with a vase of roses try to escape from a Crossface Chickenwing.
Hmmm, maybe I shouldn’t talk about wrestling with pre-teens in my basement either.
If it’s a boy, what’s that going to mean? Moreover, what is it about men wanting boys? And I don’t mean in a way that would bring Chris Hansen out from a back room with a pitcher of lemonade.
I’ve got to assume having a boy is the father’s Mulligan. Everything I wish I had done when I was a child will now be the progeny’s job to carry out. I wanted to play professional hockey as kid followed by basketball as a teen, but I abandoned both once I discovered that alcohol removes the shame from hitting on a McDonald’s worker through the drive-thru speaker and sleeping in a nearby field because you dropped your house key will surfing in a flat-bed.
But guess who will be too busy with windsprints and shooting drills and three-man weaves for drinking? My boy. He’ll hate me for it. And I’ll love him for hating me. And when he wins the NBA Championship against LeBron’s son’s team, he’ll thank me in the post-game interview.
Or at least that’s how it would go in a perfect world. What’s more likely: I’ll hound him for a few years, he’ll play to please me before we both get tired of it. He’ll go off with his friends and I’ll go take a nap on the couch.
If, however, I have a girl, I imagine days filled with tea parties surrounded by the lifeless eyes of her stuffed animals, interminable sessions with dolls bodily proportioned in such ways to give offense to the average woman, and sitting still while she applies makeup to my face, bows to my bald head and bangles to my increasingly chubby wrists.
OK, I take everything back. I better be having a boy.