Good afternoon, little one. Our pregnancy bulletin says you’re reaching about 2¼ pounds, which doesn’t sound like much, but I’m sure your mother would love to disagree. You’ve already had your first case of hiccups and you’re blinking now, which is pretty amazing, really. The doctor is happy with your progress, and your little heart sounded great yesterday!

With all the planning going on around the baby showers, we’ve been doing a lot of explaining our decision to keep your gender a mystery until your birth. To be fair, we’ve gotten about an 80% approval rating from those people who’ve asked, and those are usually very supportive—which makes up for the 20% or so who have given us puzzled looks and even responses verging on hostility. I suppose it makes the process of buying gifts for you marginally harder, but hell, I’m a guy, I’ve purchased for baby showers before, and I’ve never had a problem finding something for a child of unspecified gender. They act as if we’re keeping this secret just to make their visit to Babies ‘R’ Us that much more difficult. (This reaction also seems to parallel a particular response to the idea of natural delivery: Birth is treated like a nose job). It’s not that we want to inconvenience anyone, really.

Maybe it’s the society we live in nowadays, where CNN shows us news from all over the world as it happens, the Internet is a repository of knowledge undreamed of ten short years ago, and medical procedures are broadcast on cable TV. People expect information immediately: What is this thing growing on my arm? Who is Jennifer Anniston dating today? What’s GM’s stock price right now? With three clicks on my phone, I can answer most of these questions and send you to WebMD to die of hypochondria overload. But do we need to know all this stuff? Just because they can tell us what you are doesn’t mean we want to know.

In the meantime, we’ve heard several of the wives’ tales about predicting the gender, which I’ll share with you here. Perhaps when you’re old enough we can all sit down over coffee, read this, and laugh.

The Chinese Birth Calendar.

Recommended to us by our accountant, who swore by its accuracy. We sat in her office before going over our financial records and looked up the table (pleasure before pain), which claimed we would have a boy. Jen did some looking online when we got home, and found other calendars, all of which claimed different results.

Net result: 50/50 odds.

Baby’s Position (where Mother is carrying).

Apparently, if the baby is way up high (directly under the chest), this means it will be a girl. When the baby is low, it’s a boy. Problem: How do we know what “high” is? Jen has been told it’s when the boobs are resting on the belly. I don’t think this is the case with you, although I think you’re riding high, personally—I’ve seen some women carrying kids down around their knees. Yee-ouch.

Net result: 50/50 odds.

Genetics.

Science says that the male carries the determining genetics for gender. Looking back through my family, we’re averaging about one girl for every three boys (save my Uncle Brian, who dents the curve with his output), and that carries through to my grandparents, where the ratio is slightly wider (1:4). My wife’s family is skewed the opposite way, and with twins to boot.

Net result: Boy.

Needle Reading.

I’ve heard of this, but we haven’t tried it. There are all kinds of variations on how to do this, some simply dangling a threaded needle over the wrist, belly, or wedding ring, and some sound like complicated forms of the Macarena. Whatever the case, an unscientific poll says that circles equal girls and lines equal boys. I’m going to leave it up the the pros at our family shower in a few weeks.

Net result: Undetermined.

Drano Method.

Apparently a few ounces of mother’s morning urine added to a jar of two tablespoons of crystal Drano will produce a chemical reaction (no duh) which will predict the gender: dark color==boy, light or no color==girl. This sounds like a method pioneered by poor Appalachian plumbers.

Net result: Gross. No way.

Baby’s Heart Rate.

This theory states that a heart rate above 140bpm means girl and below means boy. But Jen’s found places that say it’s the other way around. Again, with the myths it’s hard to get the straight dope. For the record, you’re averaging about 155.

Net result: 50/50 odds.

Morning Sickness.

The common wisdom says that if Mother had bad morning sickness in the first trimester, she will be having a girl. Your great-grandmother had terrible morning sickness, and she gave birth to your grandfather, so go figure. As for you, I’ll put it like this: For all your mother had to deal with during her first three months, you’d better be a Nobel-winning kung-fu champion movie star. No pressure.

Net result: Girl.

Baby Activity.

If the baby is very active, this means boy. But again, what is “very active?” Is it 24-hour frat party active, or 5-hour kegger? Is it drum lesson active or Zeppelin concert active? Your mother says you’ve been very active.

Net result: Boy.

Craving Salt.

If the mother craves salt, this means boy. But your mother had these cravings long before you were born, and there have been no plans to install a salt lick in the living room. I’d say her intake has stayed the same, although her craving for sugar has increased dramatically in the last few months. What does that mean?

Net result: Undetermined.

Cold Feet.

Supposedly, cold feet are the mark of the male gender. During the first trimester, your mother was cold all the time, but we live in a drafty old house. Now that July has rolled around, she’s been hotter than a two-dollar pistol.

Net result: Undetermined.

So what does all this mean? It means we have a new and interesting use for Drano, and we’re no closer to knowing what you’ll be than we were before. That’s alright, though—boy or girl, we’re taking you to kung-fu lessons and music classes, and I think you’ll be just as happy with jungle animals as you would with flowers or race cars. We love surprises, and you’ll be the best one of all.

Hi, little one. This past week was a busy one, so this note is late, but I think you understand. Wednesday morning we met with a very friendly doula at a Starbucks up in White Marsh. A doula is sort of like a coach for both your mother and I. She’s had several children herself, and she’s helped a bunch of other mothers with their deliveries, so she knows what to do during the different stages of labor. I don’t know about your mother, but I got a great feeling from this woman almost immediately after shaking her hand. We chatted for an hour and a half, and by the end of the meeting we were both sold. Which means that, barring a scheduling catastrophe or freak September blizzard, she will be one of the first people you meet on the day of the Big Move. She is very familiar with the hospital we’ll be at and she gave the OBs in your mother’s practice glowing praise, something that very nearly made your mother cry with relief. Also, the combined batting average of the doula and our doctors means the chances are exceptionally good you will be coming out the front door and not through the window.

All that noise you heard on Friday? That would have been the Catonsville parade, right out in front of our house. All the swearing you heard the previous Monday? That was your father’s reaction to the people who staked out their spot on our lawn with a tarp and five rusty paint cans. Other houses get neat rows of plastic furniture, and we get the crap from the back of somebody’s garage. I’m over it now, though.

Thinking about it for a little while, I smile when I think that you will spend your first couple of years in a house where you will expect this yearly phenomena just like you will expect a cake for your birthday. I wonder if we’ll move out in time for us to have to explain to you no, not everyone gets a parade in their front yard, and daddy’s yelling at that man because he’s trying to kill our grass.

Every year we spend the week before the parade getting ready, and it never seems like we actually are. This year we had some friends come early and help us with some critical tasks which made things run a lot smoother. The parade itself was great. We got the usual state senators, representatives, judges, sheriffs and pageant winners, but no Governor. We did, however, get the Wienermobile! There was a lot of Jeebus this year, too—the tambourine people were back, and the puppets, but the Krishnas didn’t make an appearance. The Boumis came out in full force, and there were a whole dealership’s worth of Corvettes, along with a gaggle of pretty older cars. And some ugly ones too.

It rained off and on all day, so I would have bet your college fund there would be no fireworks that evening, but they decided to shoot them off anyway. Not that we were in any condition to walk down to see them; instead, we sat our asses on the couch and slowly fell asleep.

Saturday we were all still wiped out, so we did what most other Americans do on holiday weekends: we shopped for furniture and antiques at our favorite haunts, then took in Wall-E at a nice climate controlled movie theater. You will surely like Wall-E when you’re old enough to watch it; I’d say it’s one of the best Pixar movies in a long while (Toy Story and The Incredibles being my favorites). But we’ll get to that in a few years—no hurry. Mommy and Daddy can’t afford all those DVDs right now anyway.