Here is the picture from ultrasound #2. I don't see anything resembling a penis, but I'll take the doctor's word for it.

Today, B. had her second ultrasound. She texted as she was leaving the appointment and said that she would email me the photos (which I’ll post tomorrow). She also said that we would probably want to call her after we read her email (but not to worry because it was something exciting).

That was cryptic. Before the email came in, Alberto and I exchanged several texts wondering what she could mean. We basically decided that the doctor had found another baby, crouching in the corner of B.’s womb where he or she had been missed in the prior ultrasound. Although I have said through this entire process that I would be happy to have twins as long as they are healthy, I have settled into the idea that we are only having one baby. I had visions of becoming buried under a giant, overflowing diaper genie.

But B.’s email came with an even bigger surprise. Although she is only 10-weeks pregnant, the doctor had a guess as to the sex of the baby. She wanted to know if we wanted to know.

Yes, we want to know. I can appreciate couples who want to be surprised, who will enjoy the months of suspense. We are not those people. A little suspense goes a long way. I can wait until the end of a movie to find out who the murderer is. I can wait until the end of a baseball game to find out who wins (Alberto is bad, even with this). But I don’t think I could ever wait a full nine months to find out whether the nursery will be blue or pink. Plus we need to get working on names now.

So B. told us. We are (probably, maybe, more-than-likely) having a boy. The doctor said she thought she could “see something growing down there” (presumably she means a penis). We are thrilled!

I’ve started reading "What to Expect When You’re Expecting". Although the book claims to be for expectant fathers as well, I can’t believe how much of this book is dedicated to caring for and explaining the changes that are happening to one’s nipples. I can’t say that I find this to be overly relevant to my situation.

But it is fascinating, and alarming, to explore the mutations that pregnancy visits upon a woman’s body. It’s like a Victorian horror story, teeming with corporal mortification and oozing with humanity. The chafing, the bloating, the gas, the hair, the varicose veins, the mucus, the nausea, the saliva, the sweat. And I'm not even to the part about the delivery yet!

Don’t get me wrong. It’s a beautiful thing, and I’m not being glib when I say that I would gladly undertake similar alterations if I could carry the baby myself. I know that is a cliché that husbands have said for millennia, safe from having to make good on their claim because of the limitations of science and creation. Perhaps someday “Junior” – not Arnold’s best work – will not only be a travesty of filmmaking, but also a technological reality. Presumably by then my childbearing days will be behind me. But future generations of fathers should be careful what they wish for.