Earlier today my oldest daughter had a Facebook Live post where she had planned a gender-reveal party, a relatively recent sign of the times, for her friend. It was mostly properly social distant, a more recently added sign of the times. But the whole thing reminded me of my first (non-party) gender reveal—her.
Even before we were married we had agreed that while we might be able to find out the gender we wanted it to be a surprise. It was a very mutual agreement. Fast forward a few years and we were walking into the hospital for the ultrasound where we might be able to find out the baby’s sex. While Madigan Army Medical Center was a modern, then state of the art, facility the doors were not automatic and as I pulled one open Ginger said, “I want to know the sex.”
Now ordinarily posting a story like this could be taken as me trying to make her seem indecisive or less “smart” than me. But this was during pregnancy. Her ability to change her mind was an innate, indisputable prerogative that she and any woman in a similar state has. No representation is made that this was anything beside that. If a pregnant woman decides she wants something she has never before or since has wanted it is her right even if you do have to drive all the way to the other side of town to get it.
Side note, do not even think about not going to the other side of town to get it for her or you WILL regret it for the rest of your life.
Back on point, through the whole walk to the appointment we went back and forth with me (stupidly) reminding her of our previous agreement. This discussion continued as we went in for the procedure. At the point of the ultrasound where we could find out the technician asked us if we were discussing if we wanted to know. When I told her the whole story—because that’s what I do—she commented that it didn’t matter because the baby had its legs crossed.
To this I replied, “We’re Southern Baptists, it’s a girl!” And the rest is accurate history.