Sunday, 3 November 2013


Whorrified, daughter pregnant,
her baby's gender. I've provided a blatant clue 
for the stupider readers among you. (You get 
two guesses.) What's that? The foil on the sofa? 
That's to keep the cats off it. It doesn't work, 
but it keeps the furniture remarkably fresh.

You may remember that very personal news I graciously blabbed on my daughter's behalf a while back, about her being pregnant? Well today, even bigger news: she found out the gender of the baby she is carrying. 

I've been waffling back and forth on this one for weeks, thinking, "If the good lord wanted us to know what we were having before we had it, he'd have given us a zipper instead of a vagina." (Which, come to think of it, is a fantastic idea. It's pretty bad when even I can come up with ways God could do better.)

"When you find out, don't tell me," I told her.
"But everyone else will know," she fretted.
"I'll tell them not to tell me," I said.
"You might figure it out when you see the nursery," she insisted.
"I won't look at it," I said. "I don't want to know. I want the mystery."
And I do. In fact the only thing that kept me going during my own three pregnancies was knowing that I'd have that Kinder Surprise-ish thrill at the end of it all. Mind you I'd be in too much crotch-throttling agony to give a screaming shat, but still. It kept me going, is the point here.
Anyway, the joke was on me. 
Because the instant the very second  my daughter said "I had the ultrasound today," I was consumed with a virulent need to know. 
"IT'S A BOY!" I shrieked. "I dreamt it! I knew it! You're having a boy."
"Incorrect," she said. "It's a girl."

"That's what I meant," I said. "A girl. Omigod! How I wish today was one of my drinking days!" 

Because you know what? Boys may be great, but girls are perfect. I should know; I've had three of them. 
My firstborn daughter has two of them.
And now my middle daughter is gestating one of them. 
We're practically the Kardashians, but with less money and better husbands. Hey! *beckons to moron editor, who is picking his nose and staring blankly into space* Crank up this handicam and get my agent on the phone, will you? I think I'm on to something, here.

EDITOR'S NOTE: You don't have an agent.
MY NOTE: *kicks editor in the neuticles* And why don't I? Because you're an idiot! Just start filming, we'll worry about the agent part afterwards. Here, we'll rewind to the part where I kick you ...
EDITOR'S NOTE: Very becoming behaviour, Grandma.