Before I got pregnant—before I even started trying to get pregnant—Sean and I would refer to our mythical future child as "Hamish." I can't remember exactly how this started, although I do remember telling Sean that I used to babysit a sweet little boy named Hamish, and Sean declaring it his favorite baby name ever, but we somehow fell into the habit of using "Hamish" as a synonym for "baby." Before too long, we'd have perfectly normal conversations with each other that contained sentences like "When we have a Hamish, we can..." and "Oh, we should remember that for when we have a Hamish."
Once we found out that I was, indeed, with Hamish, it only made sense to continue to call our unborn fetus a popular Scottish boy's name, despite being neither a) Scottish or b) any more than 50% sure that this baby is actually a boy. I know most parents-to-be go with cute little nicknames like "bean" or "peanut" or "oops," but Hamish seems to have stuck for us for some reason, and now my family has adopted it too. If we're feeling formal, we use his or her full name, which changes weekly based on whichever fruit or vegetable my good old Babycenter email tells me the baby resembles at this point. This is how, at somewhere between nine and ten weeks pregnant, I received this Christmas present from my parents under the tree:
Wait, did I say I received the present? The present was clearly for Hamish. I mean, the teeny-tiny yellow terry cloth bathrobe with matching eensy-weensy duckie slippers was adorable, obviously, but it wasn't really my size.
These days, Hamish the Grape is now Hamish the Heirloom Tomato, according to Babycenter—frankly, I'm just glad the Hamish the Turnip week is over, for reasons of obvious unglamorousness—and we're about to face a very important milestone. Later this week, if all goes according to plan at my ultrasound, we're going to be able to find out if Hamish is actually a Hamish or....well, I guess a Hamishetta.
Did you find out the sex of your baby in advance? I admire your restraint if you didn't, but Sean and I both agreed immediately that we wanted to find out as soon as we could. For me, it's a matter of planning; I somehow feel that I can plan better if I know exactly what I'm dealing with. Boom, 50% of that spreadsheet of baby names can be deleted. Bam, all those bunny-printed sundresses in my online shopping cart can be erased. For the first nineteen weeks of this pregnancy, I've known little more about this baby than its washing-machine heartbeat and its grainy ultrasound image, and now suddenly I've got the chance to unlock one of the biggest mysteries of all. I know people say you should wait because you don't get many surprises in life, but how is it any less of a surprise at 19 weeks than it is at 39 or 40?
Anyway, if you asked me if I have a hunch, I'd tell you that I'm fairly certain it's a girl. I don't know why—other than that I'm a girl, so maybe that's all I can imagine?—but I think I'd be a little surprised to find out I'm wrong. Sean, on the other hand, is pretty certain it's a boy, and since both of us have exactly a one-in-two chance of getting it right—and no significant evidence other than "eh, I just think so" to point us either way—we're just going to have to wait and see what happens. And while I'm thrilled beyond belief that we're finally going to get to find out, I'm also getting strangely nostalgic for the few days we have left when we don't yet know what we're having. I'll be over the moon about whatever it is, obviously, but I'm sure I'll mourn, just a little bit, whatever it isn't.
Do you have a guess? Now's the time to place your bets. Winner gets to say they were psychic all along.