Who cared if it was a break with ancient tradition to get a peek between the legs a few months early? It's not like we were doing anything else in any sort of ancient way. We would be having our baby in the hospital, with high-tech monitoring devices and all the pain medication I'd need to get through labor.
"You can find out and just not tell me," Haywood suggested. But I wanted us to enter parenthood in unison, so when he announced to the sonographer that we didn't want to know the baby's sex, I didn't peep -- even when the sonographer asked, "Are you sure? I've got a great view here." I nodded and squeezed Haywood's hand.
I was squeezing his hand again four months later when the doctor exclaimed, "It's a boy! What's his name?" Haywood choked out, "It's Sam," hugged me, and cried.
Four years later, expecting again, we took the same positions, but things were different. I'd had two miscarriages since Sam was born and was on bed rest with preterm labor, praying my baby would make it. So, early on I'd made up my mind: I'd find out the gender and not tell Haywood. This time there was an added urgency: If I wasn't going to have the chance to see this baby grow up, at least I could think in terms of him or her.