It's A . . .

Boy, were we excited to go to the doctor back in December to find out the gender of our little bun in the oven. Unfortunately, the doctor was way backed up, so we twiddled our thumbs in the waiting room for approximately 62 minutes, then in the exam room for another 27. As we waited, we hoped that the baby would cooperate and manifest him/herself to us clearly when the time came. Finally, after we were ready to boycott all doctors offices entirely, in came the man himself. The visit was standard: we heard the heartbeat, he took our questions, and then he started to bustle out the door.

Wait! Weren't we going to do an ultrasound? I hated to put such a demand when the workday had already gone so late, but I just couldn't manage to wait another two weeks for the official sonogram. Dr. Y had said at our last visit that we'd find out today.

So instead we were ushered into another exam room. Out came the goopy gel and up slid my shirt to expose the ample (and growing ampler) midsection. It took not long to find the little one, and even less time to determine which way the wind blew.