Gender Intrusion

My friend Jill* is going to her husband's family reunion today if she can't find an excuse to get out of it. In case she's unable to wriggle out of the adventure, she asked her friends to give her some comebacks for the dreaded, "So when are you going to try for a girl?" question that will inevitably arise.

Jill has three wonderful sons, and her husband recently had a vasectomy, so the easy answer is "never". I think she probably appreciated my proposed response: "Two weeks ago, my husband had his balls cut off. They're in my purse, do you want to see them?" But the topic sparked a conversation among my friends about gender and why people even feel the need to comment on the make-up of your family.

I was at REI a few months ago, watching The Ambassador in the children's play area and chatting with another mom who was visibly pregnant and wrangling her own three boys. We'd covered some basic mom ground, so I felt comfortable asking about her pregnancy.


ME: Do you know what you're having?

HER: (APPREHENSIVELY, BUT BRIGHTLY) A boy!

ME: Congratulations! Boys are magical, aren't they?

HER: (GRINNING BROADLY) They are! No one ever says things like that when I say I'm having number four!


She'd obviously gotten the disappointed comments and reactions that I've heard so much about from my friends with multiples of the same gender. We parted shortly after that, and she was still smiling when The Ambassador and I walked away, and as I left, I wondered, "Why does anyone else care what we're having?"

Picture my surprise when the comments started floating in with the news that we're having a girl. "Oh, how wonderful! Now you can finally dress a little girl in pink!" and "It's so nice to have one of each!" It was as if I'd been morosely pining aloud over my inability to swath a room and child in Pepto-Bismol for the past two years or, as my friend Gretchen says, I'd been trying to complete my Pokemon collection and all I needed was the magical XX card.

Before I became a mom, I never gave much thought to the gender of my kids. With my first pregnancy, I joked that I wanted a boy, because "that whole wipe front-to-back thing is a little intimidating" (which I still believe, by the way, especially now that I've experienced newborn turbo-poops). With this pregnancy, I told everyone that the practical side of me wanted a second boy, so I could recycle all those cool clothes we bought The Ambassador. But once I got the "all clear" on fingers, toes and major organs, the news that I was having a girl or boy was simply icing. The nursery would have been the same no matter what, because according to Hubby, "You WILL use that ridiculously expensive crib bedding again JUST LIKE YOU PROMISED!" (Whatever, dude.)

So, tell me. If you're one of those annoying people who likes to comment on everyone's matched/mismatched gender sets, why? (No, not "why do you read my blog?", because clearly you're a masochist if you're sticking around after reading that question, and I love you for that. You're my kind of reader.) But why do you comment? Is it just idle conversation? Do you really think people are happier when they get to suffer both the violent hormonal mood swings of a teenage girl and the outrageous grocery bills that accompany a teenage boy? Is it because you are happier with a mixed set and think everyone should experience your pain joy? Sort of like how married people always try to convince single people they should get married, too? Do you own a toddler clothing store, so your goal is to minimize hand-me-downs and maximize your potential sales? Lastly, are you also the same person who asks where I adopted my son or if I had IVF?

Just curious.


*Not her real name, but it's close!

The Lights Aren't On, But We're Home

As Hubby pointed out in his comment on yesterday's post, I failed to mention the power outage we had the other night. Curious about how the Burbia family amuses itself during a blackout? Wonder no longer...

The Suburban Week in Review

You're probably tempted to say, "Where the HECK have you been, young lady?" You'd be justified. I do have a strike update, I swear. But the week's events got in the way, so that post will follow shortly. "But, Deb," you say, "what could possibly be so important that it got in the way of updating your beloved readers on the greatest household rights movement since the invention of the Dyson?" And I would understand that, too. So here's a quick snippet of the week, and I hope you'll be patient with me on the strike update for one more day. Or two.


Suburban Week #3,235 -- the week we now refer to as "The Very Definition of Insanity"

Monday - Nothing, really. This is where the blogging ball was fully in my capable hands and I dropped it anyway. You may smite me accordingly.

Tuesday - This is where things turned. Well, okay, maybe not. Nothing really happened on Tuesday, either, but I think that was the universe's way of telling me to relax a bit, because the roller coaster ride was about to begin. I heeded the call of the universe, that's all. Surely you can forgive me for not blogging, right? I was heeding!

Wednesday - Now THIS, this was a big day. My child overslept (a portent of things to come?) and missed his once-a-week daycare, which was a drag. But -- and this is where I redeem myself, people -- I spent the afternoon, dragging my pregnant self to the local perinatal unit with a painfully full bladder and discovered that not only does my little one have all the required digits and limbs, but she is indeed a SHE. Here's a sneak peek:



Gazing at that cherubic profile and gorgeous pout makes you decide you're almost ready to forgive me, doesn't it?

Wednesday, continued - We raced The Ambassador to the ER shortly after returning home from the ultrasound. Without going into mind-numbing detail, he is okay. It took two days to figure that out, and he has a follow-up evaluation that will need to be done with a neurologist, but this is a road we've been down before. Hopefully, we'll get some answers soon.

Thursday - A routine day. I did not leave for the BlogHer conference in San Francisco (probably, because I wasn't attending. Damn it.) Party planning commenced, our niece arrived from Kansas, and I made a frantic, last-minute drive to our pediatrician across the river, because one of The Ambassador's blood cultures from Wednesday was growing wildly out of control and threatening to take over the entire lab at Children's Hospital. Well, maybe it wasn't that bad, but I can assure you that is what a mother hears when the pediatrician says, "Get him here immediately for antibiotics. We have something in the Petri dish." Four large needles and a urine sample later (his, not mine), we were on our way to dinner and ice cream.

Friday - The Ambassador is looking 100%. Party planning is in full-force. Housecleaning is going like gangbusters. I completely missed Mr. Lady wowing the BlogHer crowd, according to the wave of Tweets I read this afternoon (I AM going next year, I swear it). Word from the pediatrician came that the latest blood tests show nothing, so all they can conclude is that some clown in the lab didn't wash his hands after lunch or spit into Wednesday's blood sample, thereby contaminating it. On the bright side, the mega-antibiotics they injected in the child's thigh muscles will protect him until he leaves for Harvard.

So. Now. What do you have to say for yourself? Are you done cursing my name? Have you finished badmouthing my blog and my slack blogging behavior of the past week? Okay, good. I love you, too.

By the way, this is my 300th post. Thank-you in advance for the flowers and the marching band. You're all so generous to me!



Image credit: Someecards, www.someecards.com, when you care enough to hit send. Copyright Someecards, Inc. Used with permission.