The Homesteady

A rallying cry for my fellow mamas of white boys

I know I can't be alone in daydreaming about a utopia where "boy"-ness and "girl"-ness isn't binary; where children feel true freedom to like exactly what it is that they like. For the time being, with society the way it is right now, this is my letter to you, fellow mamas of white boys.

 

“How pretty! Oh... I mean handsome!”

Miles was perched on my hip and we were rocking slowly back and forth in the waiting room at his pediatrician’s office, there for his nine-month checkup. The doctor was running late, and Miles was starting to fuss after 40 minutes of charming his fellow waiting patients.

“It’s okay!” I quickly smiled, correcting the kind older woman who’d peered over to coo at him. “Boys can be pretty, too!”

She looked at me, a little concerned. Was I admonishing her? I tried to smile a little bigger, but she turned away.

Socially awkward situations aside, I'm here to tell you that it's more important than ever for mamas of white boys to intentionally cultivate softness in our sons. It's okay that they be pretty, or gentle, or kind, or emotional. We should all want it that way. It's the simplest way to counteract the insidious messages our patriarchal society is sending to them – that running "like a girl," crying when hurt or upset, or enjoying something just because it's beautiful makes them lesser because these choices have been traditionally labelled "feminine." Through our support and celebration of these traits, they will begin to learn that these are not bad things to be – that a girl or a woman is not a bad thing to be, that girls and women are not lesser than them. 

We must let them own this softness, too. It must be part of their "boy"-hood. Our sons need to know and believe that wanting to play with a Barbie or crying when frustrated or picking a tutu for dress-up is part of being a boy. It's not simply that it's feminine that we celebrate their choice to paint their toenails, but rather, or in addition, because it's theirs. An expression of their taste or style or favorite color, just as normal and natural to "boy"-ness as they may understand an interest in toy cars to be. 

These messages have been seeded into our brains too, buried down deep along with all the other garbage we've endured or experienced coming up as women. Giving intention to anything means also giving some of your energy to it. It's taken work and therapy on my part to dismantle, or at least critically examine, the biases that I'm bringing to the table. And as a parent I have to check myself daily – when I'm shopping at Target I go on purpose to the girls' clothing sale racks first. I suggest to Miles's grandparents that they select pink or purple toys when they buy gifts for him. He wears lots of hand-me-down clothing, and as it comes in waves from the growing 2-year-old boy who lives across the street, we sort through and intentionally donate what feels a little too heavy-handed when it comes to dump trucks or superheroes or even the color blue. (Yes, he does wear clothing with tools on it – his last name is Hammer, so that's pretty inevitable – but he also wears rainbow rompers, pj's with pink stripes, and the gosh-darn sweetest bonnets you've ever seen.)

Have you noticed that I'm talking specifically about white boys? That's intentional, too; it's privileged folk who most need to adjust our behavior, biases, and expectations of ourselves and others. As mothers of white sons, we have the opportunity to affect that real change for all of the children in their generation. Black mamas are busy teaching their sons how to stay alive in a deeply broken country where young black men are exponentially more likely to be killed during an interaction with police – not to mention the countless other prejudices men and people of color face and have faced since America's very first days.

So is this the responsibility of mothers alone? No. Everyone has work to do. But it should come built into the #boymom brand. You know – the pride we as "boy moms" take in our ability to correctly identify obscure construction equipment; to discern quickly whether a rough-house injury requires a trip to the ER or not; to toss a good tee-ball pitch. (Although since Miles was born I have, and this is true, gotten much better at playing catch.) So too must we bake this important work in to our mothering. We are the shapers of white men. The responsibility to raise kind, good, fair boys rests, at least partially, on our shoulders. 

Are you a boy mama? Is this something you think about? I'd love to hear what kind of intentional adjustments you've made in raising your sons, or any good articles, books, or resources that have resonated with you.

You might like:

• The Feminist Utopia Project [affiliate link] + my review
• 5 ways to teach kids about consent
• American Girl's first boy doll
• 23 ways you might experience internalized misogyny
• Men report the "feminine" things they would do if stereotypes didn't exist (<-- this made me cry)
• Misogyny has been proven harmful to men's health
• Motherhood as a feminist act
• No means no when boys say it too
• 5 ways to teach children how to handle romantic rejection
• How to combat rape culture when raising kids
• Everything on this list

Clawing our way out of debt and into a new house (or how we make extra money)

I want to buy a house – a safer, quieter, bigger, better place to live with a yard and a fence and good-smelling trees and two bathrooms.

I want to travel – to teach our baby how to sleep on airplanes, to tote him around the United Kingdom and France, to show him as many new people and animals and foods as I can. I want to get tipsy on a beach in Mexico with Kristie. I want to rent a trailer and drive our family around the country. I want to camp somewhere remote and beautiful and mountainous. 

I want to be out of debt.

(I've wanted these things for awhile. So why don't I have them? Because money is hard and life is hard and sometimes I go grocery shopping on an empty stomach.)

We're essentially living on one income right now. Kristie and I are both working (because work can be fulfilling and I think we can all agree that a fulfilled person [however that happens] is a better parent), and I'm the primary earner, so what she makes basically goes right to daycare. 

Four years ago I wrote this post about how to spend less money. All the tips are good and relevant and we still do almost all of them, but we're obviously not millionaires yet, and we're not going to get there just by meal-planning and going to matinees. 

Luckily we each have a pretty good work ethic, especially when it comes to creative projects. This is what we work on on weekends, at night, during nap times. This will be what changes our lives. 

 

Things We Do to Make More Money

Freelance website editing: Kristie works from home one day a week and in the evenings editing listings on a travel site, a gig we came across a thousand years ago on Craigslist.

Wedding videos: Kristie and I are a good videography team. Individually, we've each worked with Brittney and Shana as a third shooter on their wedding videos, and done a couple ourselves that I'm really proud of. These videos are some of my favorite things in the world to make, and I want to do more. We're looking for one or two more this summer, and talking about making it our official (and primary) side gig next wedding season. My dad is a certified drone pilot, so we'll be pulling him on board too! This is the thing that probably makes us the most money, and it's what I enjoy the most too. 

Blog: I've been writing this blog for about six years (wow!). I usually take home between $1,000 and $3,000 per year from affiliate links (I have partnerships with some websites like Amazon or Etsy, and when a reader makes a purchase through a link on my blog, I get a small percentage of the sale), sponsored posts (I've made the most through opportunities posted on Clever), video gigs (through Darby), and Google ads. The money I make blogging first goes to things like my domain name and hosting, and DIY supplies for new posts. Then I "pay myself" with whatever's left over. It's not hugely lucrative, but it's something I love doing and that has its own value, too. 

Freelance writing: I've done freelance writing on and off since I graduated from college in 2009. Most recently, I sold three essays to Pregnant Chicken for $50 each. 

Graphic design: I made $15 last winter with digital holiday card templates on Etsy [affiliate link]. I was anxious about my ability to handle the work with a newborn, but it went well and I'll probably market a little more heavily this winter. I also designed the graphic identity for my dad's drone business for free (see it here under "Portfolio"), and am cautiously interested in doing more of that. 

Passive income: I design and sell cross stitch patterns on Etsy [affiliate link], and photos on Creative Market. Once the up-front work is done (designing, stitching, and shooting patterns/shooting and uploading photos), I take home about $20 a month.

I'm also working on two e-books (one of 10 French macaron recipes, and one of 10 mini feminist cross stitch patterns), and I'm planning a year-long cross stitch subscription for 2019.

Photo editing: I passed the tests to become a Mendr editor (basically freelance Photoshopping for $6-$10 a pop), but they have editors on-staff so there are almost never any available gigs. I still check, though! And I'll edit photos for friends here and there.

 

When it comes to what we do with the extra money we make, it first pays for whatever the gig's needs are (a rented camera for wedding videos; the blog domain name; etc.) and then we try hard-but-not-hard-enough to follow the plan set out in this book [affiliate link]. Be warned, there's a lot of Christian rhetoric in Dave Ramsey's books and on his podcast, but his ideas are sound and his writing is motivational. 

I've made the mistake before (at least once) of taking on too much. Too many hustles. And now I have more to lose now than just downtime; I don't want to do any of this at the cost of spending time with my son. (As I'm writing this, I'm actually kind of talking myself into picking one and putting my time and energy there. It should probably be the wedding videos.)

How does our garden grow? (Um...not well)

My wife Kristie slapped together a garden bed to house some vegetables last month.

It's my first garden in a few years – with each spring I think, no, we won't be here through summer, we'll have bought a new house by then and I won't want to leave our produce for the next renters. But of course, what you need to buy a house is a down payment! And we haven't gotten there quite yet. So I decided to put down a few more roots this spring. We're still working hard on that whole down payment thing – maybe I'll share some of my side hustles here soon – but in the meantime, I'll keep trying to coax some veggies from our backyard.

Spoiler alert: It's not going well, ha! Turns out it's hard to remember to water plants when you're focused on keeping a baby human fed and happy too. Luckily we're still having fun visiting the garden bed after work, talking about the plants, and burrowing Miles's feet into the soil. 

I want to remember the vegetable plants like this. (You know...alive.) Should any rebound from the trauma of being moved from seed tray to garden bed – plus a few days' abject neglect – I'll take their picture again.

Mornings

Miles squawks awake at 5:55. He's supposed to wake at 7, but the number of times that has happened can be counted on one hand. Kristie and I toss and turn while listening to the baby toss and turn, hoping he'll settle back down for 20 more minutes. We don't last more than 10; one of us wanders sleepily into the nursery to scoop him up, full of praise. You slept in your crib, and for such a long time! We knew you could do it. We are so proud of you.

I stumble down the stairs (more carefully, when I'm toting him), turning on lights, opening window shades, and greeting everything out loud for his benefit. Good morning, living room. Good morning, Samson. Good morning, outside. I arrange all the necessary pillows, and the baby and I assume our favorite breastfeeding position on the couch (it's such a favorite, in fact, we're starting to wear a groove in the sofa cushion, oops). I instruct Alexa to stream New England Public Radio as we settle in and Miles's hungry whining tapers off. I time our breastfeeding sessions – still; maybe always – on an app, and listen hopefully to the morning news for any mention of the word "impeachment." (Maybe tomorrow.)

Kristie eats cereal in the kitchen. She used to eat breakfast perched on the couch next to us, but the baby is so enamored with her, he forgets to nurse whenever she's in his eyeline, preferring instead to smile and blink heavily in her direction, asking for play. So she's been banished.

When Miles is finished nursing, Kristie frees him from his sleepsack and changes his diaper, chooses his clothes, wipes the sleep from the corners of his eyes (we discuss his ever-clogged tear ducts in low tones) as he calls out to her in shrieks and gurgles. He's so happy to be awake. Samson watches us all from a pile of blankets on his bed. I take my turn eating breakfast, and start the coffee maker if I remember early enough. 

Three out of five weekday mornings, we get ready for daycare. Kristie and I spar gently over who gets to record his morning in the red notebook that travels back and forth with him. This many minutes spent nursing; the time his diaper was changed; how many times he woke up in the night (today: one). I make a note about his newfound joy in squealing, shouting, talking.

Kristie and the baby read books out loud (I hear her add extra "pleases" to one about a construction site), or play with his stuffed fox (a girl, we've decided, creatively named "Foxy"), or swap the news for Dolly Parton and dance around the house. I dress, add product to my hair, remember I made coffee, put on makeup, pack a lunch, add stored bags of breastmilk and an ice pack to his daycare bag, toss clean breast pump parts into my purse, remember the coffee again. By the time I've brought our things out to the car and started the engine to help get everything warmed up, Miles is ready for his first nap. We settle him in to the car seat, adding blankets and toys and maybe a pair of sunglasses. Kristie and I kiss each other goodbye (almost always a shock passing from one of us to the other – her fleece bathrobe is the culprit, don't let her tell you different). 

I turn on music in the car, shuffling between local top hits stations. Miles is asleep before we reach the bridge. I remember the coffee; still warm. I love watching the baby from the rearview mirror, his eyelids drifting closed, one hand clamped on a chest strap. It looks like he's pretending to sleep, his face is so perfect. We drive over the gray river and past foggy fields. I forget about the construction until it's almost too late, but the car is trapped in traffic for only a few minutes. 

After dropping him off (hello to his little friends, to our bigger ones who run the daycare, thank you, yes his ear infection is feeling much better, we're so glad, thank you, I hope he keeps sleeping, thank you), I'm alone in the car. Alone for the first and probably only time today. I trade the music for a podcast – true crime – and pick my way back through the fog. I take the highway and get to work in 20 minutes. It's still early, which means a decent parking spot. I unlock and wake up my office (good morning desk, good morning space heater, good morning computer), and remember the coffee again.

Break it open

"BREAK, break it open, let the knocker rust;
Consider no ‘shalt not,’ and no man's ‘must.’
And, being entered, boldly take the lead,
Setting aside tradition, custom, creed;
Nor weigh the balance of the huckster's beam,
Declare your hardiest thought, your proudest dream.
Await no summons, laugh at all rebuff,
High hearts and youth are destiny enough.
The mystery and power enshrined in you
Are old as time and as the moment new,
And none but you can know what part you play;
Nor can you tell until you make assay,
For this alone, this always, will succeed:
The miracle and magic of the deed."

"To the Generation Knocking at the Door"
By John Davidson (reprinted in The Suffragist in March 1918)

We're starting Miles early with protests, marches, conversations about consent and kindness and how our white, male, heterosexual (presumably for those last two, but what do we care if otherwise) child can use his privilege to be a good ally. Those conversations are pretty one-sided so far, but it's a start. Miles can learn so much from the student organizers involved in Black Lives Matter and March for Our Lives. I hope he grows up seeing them as heroes.

Special thanks to my friend Caroline for posting the above poem on Facebook this week.

Here & there

More on Instagram. This perfect planter is from here.

Our little family's rhythm is changing every day. Sometimes it gets harder (Miles rolls from tummy to back for the first time and we cheer, then face bedtime with two waving arms no longer bound to his body – you're meant to stop swaddling once they can turn over); sometimes easier (our middle-of-the-night feeding has evolved from an hour-long, multi-room process to a sleepy handover from bassinet to breast to bassinet again, cloaked in the warm cozy darkness of – for just a few moments – a family bed).

There's an impossible amount of joy packed into nearly every minute. He sits under his own balance for a few wobbly minutes now, laughs out loud for Kristie, clamps his hands on the pages of board books when we read. He watches us cook, squeals at the dog, is endlessly entertained (as we are) by a newfound ability to run his tongue over his upper lip. 

During the rare – but slowly, increasingly common – nighttime moments when he wakes suddenly from sleep to howl seemingly without cause, we remind each other in whispers of the developmental changes going on, the new patterns his brain is mapping out, how frustrating and difficult it must be sometimes to be a baby. Kristie and I take turns pacing with him across the creaking floor of our bedroom, bicycling his legs, administering pacifiers and gas drops and a beloved stuffed fox in turn while trying to quell the crying and keep our hearts from breaking. "This isn't like him," we say, shaking our heads, before he tumbles just as suddenly back into sleep – but really, how could we know? He changes and grows with every beautiful hour.

I didn't set out to write so much about him or parenting or our struggles with sleep today, but he's the axis on which our world currently spins. In two days, he'll be three months old, officially a newborn no longer. Maybe that's the rhythm we can rely on – we sway between struggles that challenge almost everything, and a life-affirming sweetness that charms so wholly it cancels out whatever sleep we're missing. Kristie and I are exchanging texts at this very moment wherein we pledge to one another, again, that this is the weekend we'll establish and adhere to a sleep schedule. We'll get it right. (We'll see.) Meanwhile the ratio of decaf-to-regular in the morning's coffee pot has been shifting steadily to favor ever more caffeine!

This weekend: a celebration for my sister's birthday; visits with friends; a search for more matching coffee mugs; more episodes of "Planet Earth II"; and maybe, just maybe Samson and I will go for a run together. What are you up to?

 

Links for your Friday:

"Intimate touching is not strictly sexual. Shared memories, made-up stories, books, borrowed dresses, cheap plants and kisses among friends balance the wilderness of ugliness in the world."

Scandinavian Airlines will pay for your rental car this summer

A great round-up of black-owned Etsy shops

Gerber's new spokesbaby has Down Syndrome

Plogging is such a good idea

RIP L.L. Bean's lifetime return policy :(

I want to make these DIY mountain bookends for Miles's room

Tarana Burke is writing a memoir

Pink houseplants

Would you ever sew your own coat? I think it would be the Olympics of sewing for me

Sore throat popsicles

I've been trying to figure out how to organize and save all the hundreds and hundreds of photos we're taking. I really like this family yearbook idea.

Sleepless on Sunday

I've been meaning to write about this time in our lives for a little while. The sweetness, the gentle rhythm, the waiting-for-baby readiness and appreciation for how brief and ephemeral these weeks are, how knowing this time won't last makes it that much more special.

And it IS like that...sometimes.

But sleep can be elusive when you're nine months pregnant. Yes, nights are interrupted by lots of peeing and leg cramps and groan-y attempts to roll over, but also, my brain just won't get on board. I'm tired all day, until about 10 pm, when it seems like the perfect time to stay up for four hours on a Saturday night answering work emails and streaming old episodes of "Charmed" while I drink my number one pregnancy craving, milk, straight from the jug (I mean, from a glass, if you're reading this, Kristie!).

That system works fine on the weekends. It's kind of weird to have the sleep schedule of my former college self at age 30 (especially since these late nights are sustained by chugging milk rather than like Sunset Blush Franzia), but whatever. Pretty much everything tells you to just listen to your body at this point.

This sleeping schedule doesn't mesh well with still working full time, though. I can't stay up until 2 and then get up at 7:30 in the hopes of getting to work on time (much less being able to form coherent sentences and contribute meaningfully to my department's work once I'm there). In fact, as I proved to myself this morning, I can't stay up until 2 and then get up at NINE with any hope for a productive, emotionally reasonable day.

That's why I'm back in bed, typing this out on my phone at almost 1 pm on a rainy, gray Sunday. I thought maybe I'd take a nap, but instead cried for awhile because I convinced myself that if I napped now, I wouldn't be able to fall asleep tonight until THREE in the morning, and all hope for not just Monday morning but a whole week of work would be lost. Plus a random girl on the internet had told me that pregnancy insomnia is linked to post-partum depression and I started feeling too guilty about not sleeping to be able to fall asleep.

See? My brain is just not being a team player.

So I cried hot hot tears into my pillow until I calmed down and got even more tired. Kristie came up and lied down with me, saying nice things like she loves me and everything is going to be fine and I can sleep if I want to and if not that's okay too. I felt calmer, and we watched rain drip from the power lines outside and giggled and cuddled in the silvery rainy light coming from the one pair of shades I'd opened until she had to leave to get her hair cut.

Samson came in to spell her, happy for a chance to curl up and sleep on our bed (he sleeps downstairs on the couch at night). We talked for a little while — it was pretty one-sided, but he's a good listener and wagged his tail the whole time — and then he pushed his velvety warm face against my swollen belly, closed his eyes, and fell asleep.

We used to cuddle like this like crazy, but ever since the something in there began kicking whatever it gets pressed up against, I think Samson kind of fell out of love with the whole idea (not that I could possibly imagine why that would be uncomfortable and maybe even sometimes a little annoying). But today he's staying like this, and the baby, who is growing and running out of room, therefore kind of losing the ability to really wind up for a good painful kick, is just sort of swaying against Samson's face. He waves his limbs gently, almost (I swear!) like he is petting the dog. I don't know if Samson likes it, but he is tolerating it (only glancing up occasionally to give me judgmental doggy side-eye — I know, buddy, he kicks me too), and I love it.

I thought about napping too, but I've decided not to make a decision about it because basic shit like that stresses me out. So I'm going back and forth, adding to this rambling Notes document and squinting to read Felicia Day's memoir without having to turn on a lamp and ruin this pretty natural light. Her writing is sometimes a little too electric and borderline anxious to lull me to sleep, so middle-of-the-day reading it is. And as for writing this down, I'm trying to convince myself that if I get it out now, I might not think about it tonight, and that combined with a warm bath, lavender essential oil, a different book , and maybe a Unisom (which I feel needlessly guilty about taking even though I know it's safe) will be the exact recipe for a good night's sleep and a successful Monday/week/adult life. I'm also considering making a list of small, manageable things to do when I get out of bed (eat lunch, put together a birthday/early Christmas package to send to a friend at some point this week, lay out my clothes for tomorrow, plug in my phone) but maybe I'll close my eyes for a little while instead and just let the gray day unfold while my sweet fetal son and my gassy, lightly snoring dog press against one another in the gray afternoon light.

The lull of the third trimester is not perfect. It is not without challenges and tears — and also not without its beauty, even when nothing else can be done but to lie still a little while longer.

*This post contains an affiliate link

Don't look for pictures of my kid here

Pictures of me in my underwear, though? Yeah, you'll keep seeing those.

Ever since we started the process of trying to get pregnant, I've given a lot of thought to what my baby's presence would be like on this blog. I've talked to parents and to non-parents, read articles, talked it over with my wife of course. And we've decided to largely keep our child's face offline – and that includes our private, non-blog-related social media profiles, too. 

There are two big things that drew us to this conclusion:

1. Safety. I can't imagine having to explain to my son that one of his baby photos ended up being traded in a child pornography ring. Fuck that conversation and everything about it. Everything on the internet is public and permanent, and I just can't see a way to protect him completely.
2. Privacy. My child is (going to be) a person with rights and opinions and choices to make, like whether he wants to even be on social media at all. Of course there are plenty of choices we're making now and will continue to make on his behalf (vaccinations and vegetables come to mind), but this one is going to be left up to him.

The plan for now is that we're going to have some sort of password-protected image sharing (Flickr? Amazon Photos? What do you recommend?) for relatives and close friends who want to check in and see more frequent snaps of the babe. I'll share a photo when he's born. When he gets older, he'll be consulted before I post the rare snapshots.

If you do something different with your blog or social presence, I have to tell you, I don't care. You should feel empowered to do whatever you want. This is what works for us right now.

And if you're a reader who enjoys following our lives and is saddened by the thought that you won't get to see baby pictures, I'm sorry – and I'm not sorry. I'm so grateful you care about our family and adventures, and my child's safety and rights will always be more important to me than this blog. 

Today's themes

It was because of my privilege I could be a bit quiet this weekend while visiting my grandpa and fam in the South Shore. Stayed off Facebook, mostly. Avoided the news when it all felt too much. I had the time and the space to sit with this hurt from Charlottesville (so close to my and Kristie's loved ones in Virginia) without directly confronting it because it was/is so heavy and scary. As a group, as a family, we examined it together over meals – breakfast in particular. Not the first, but one of many conversations about white supremacy, racism, Black Lives Matter, and the future of this country.

Two things I posted on Instagram this morning that keep returning to the forefront of my mind today:

This fight pennant by Secret Holiday Co.

Notes from a lecture by Northwestern professor Barnor Hesse, reposted from my friend Sonya's Instagram. 

We're having a...

To illustrate all the nesting currently happening

We're having a...

BABY!

Sorry, sorry. I promise I will tell you the sex of our first baby by the end of this blog post. But first...

I've been asked by a few people if my wife Kristie and I are planning on having a "gender reveal" to announce the sex of our baby. No, we're not. Other things feel more important – from the health of the baby (blessedly still good), to choosing to plan a party instead of sneak in a nap (no thank you). 

Plus, of course, there's the fact that signifiers of biological sex that can be spotted on an ultrasound do not necessarily indicate my baby's gender – or anyone's baby's gender.

Before I tell you this story, let me start by saying that pregnancy brain is a real thing. My spelling skills have suffered, I've put cereal boxes away in the refrigerator, that kind of thing. And it feels as though I can never think of the right word. After our 11-week blood testing, I emailed my beloved OB nurse and asked if the test included the baby's "gender." 

"No, it didn't," she wrote back. "You will learn the baby's sex at your 20-week appointment. You will learn the baby's gender when it's old enough to tell you."

I should have used the word "sex" in my question, because, to borrow from my friend the Genderbread Man, biological sex refers to "physical sex characteristics you're born with and develop, including genitalia." I.e., what can be spotted during an anatomy ultrasound, usually done around 20 weeks. If you're wondering then what "gender" or "gender identity" is, it's how you, in your head, define your own gender. As we all know, this can be different from your biological sex. When that happens, the individual may identify as genderqueer, non-binary, or transgender (among more), and may seek to transition. 

So you see, what's on the ultrasound screen is not the be-all, end-all of my child's gender. Nor should my baby's gender take up more of my attention or concern than other things I learned at the scan – the baby's health, its measurements, an updated due date, how active my baby is.

Kristie and I obviously chose to find out our baby's sex before birth. I knew I always wanted to (I'm not necessarily known for my patience). And the idea of a "gender reveal" always made me uncomfortable.

BUT!

I get it now.

(Sort of.)

I'm a little more than halfway through this pregnancy. The numerous waits we endured while trying to get pregnant were hard, and so are the waits that happen once you've conceived and are actually growing a baby. There's only so much you can know about the creature you're carrying. I'm convinced this is why expecting parents – myself included! – are so obsessed with fetus-to-fruit-size comparisons, and why sexist and unreliable old wives tales endure. (Like, if your face breaks out, it means you're having a girl and she's trying to steal your beauty. Eyeroll!) The most reasonable of us are sucked down internet rabbit holes by the promise of learning anything about our kid, regardless of the source. Once you hear the heartbeat, feel the kicks...you have to wait what feels like a very long time before learning more about what kind of person it is you're carrying.

So I get it. When you learn that supposedly concrete thing about your baby – which is sometimes the first piece of news you've gotten in weeks – you want to shout it from the rooftops. You want to imagine you know your baby; you can picture all the coming years so clearly. You want to share it with friends and family and the internet. I'm softening toward people who choose to celebrate a "gender reveal"; I get it.

But it's still not for us. Our baby's gender is not the most important thing, nor is it going to be determined by an ultrasound technician. I wish there existed a scan that could tell you your baby will possess artistic skills, or be kind, or love animals. I would much rather celebrate those traits. (Can you imagine? "We're having a...POET!") 

Not yet.

In the meantime, we found out our baby's biological sex, and are planning to use the pronouns and identifiers associated with that sex until they are old enough to affirm or correct us. 

Kristie and I can't wait to meet our healthy, beautiful son in November!