After the disappointing experience of the 20-week ultrasound, we had settled into our fate of not knowing Rummicub’s gender. Sarah was secretly happy; I took some time to come around. Then, suddenly, we were told we had to go back for another. There was much tsuris, due mainly to the prospect of having to shell out the funds for the second visit, but ultimately, a quick conversation with a nice radiologist cleared that up. They would comp us the make-up. The choice was in our hands again: did we want to know?
We pretended to hem and haw about it, even holding off our final decision until the moment after our names were called in the waiting room. Ultimately, though, we couldn’t willingly turn the information away. It wasn’t in our constitution. So, after a new tech successfully scanned for all the important stuff — doing it with about 5 times the speed and 100 times the grace and skill than the last couple of jokers — and found a very healthy beating heart, pair of kidneys, smiling face with gulping mouth, and calcium-rich spine, she popped the question: “Do you wanna know?”
“Yes,” we said.
“See that?” she asked, pointing to a white splotch between some other white splotches.
“Yes…,” we said.
“Those three lines?” she said. “That’s girl stuff. You’re having a girl.”