No surprises

The 20 week scan approaches and with it the likely introduction to a son or a daughter, because we want, no, we have to know.

Radiohead performing No Surprises. (C) 2006 EMI Records Ltd.

Radiohead performing No Surprises. (C) 2006 EMI Records Ltd.

I cannot cope with the knowledge that a sonographer knows, and we don’t. I want to start calling it “he” or “she”, not it. When I imagine the future and get used to the idea that despite a very real sense of denial, I am actually having a baby and will have a mini human dependent on me for sustenance (too weird) and will spend up to a year with it, at home, not working ­ me, it and cat, just us. And “it” just doesn’t cut it.

Why would I want a surprise? It will be a surprise in a week’s time, just as much as five months’. I don’t think I really get surprises anyway. I like knowing in advance; I like anticipating what it will be like. A surprise only works when it’s something I wouldn’t have chosen myself and hence the anticipation would likely have been tainted had I known in advance, then what you don’t know can’t hurt you seems a sensible plan. Like the surprise birthday trip to Marrakech which would probably have had me worrying about food poisoning and being hassled in the souk, but instead was a whirlwind of experience ­in an amazing place with no food poisoning and just a run in with a crazy henna lady who wanted £20 for a flower to put a downer on things.

But I don’t mind if it’s a girl or a boy, so why wait?

Now I know it’s possible that they won’t be able to tell or that they think it’s a girl but it turns out to be a less­ endowed or camera-shy boy, so you have to keep a name in reserve, but if that happens then so be it. Then I wasn’t meant to know. The fates have colluded, there’s nothing I can do.

But at least the sonographer is also none the wiser, and if nobody knows then I guess I could hold out… If I had to.

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