So the wife had the 'big' ultrasound on Monday. You know, the one where they zoom in on your unborn child's junk in an effort to determine the gender. Assuming they're not "hiding" it, as one nurse said they do sometimes.
Well, it looks like we'll be having a son. Or a three legged daughter. The former, I'd imagine, would get picked on a lot less on the playground, so we're hoping that's how it's worked out.
I'm not going to post the picture from the sonogram, with the arrow and "IT"S A BOY!!!!!!!" that the tech wrote on the image pointing to the twig & berries, as I've sworn not to post any too many embarrassing pictures on the internets, especially involving nudity or genitalia, even computerized renderings of reflected sound.
Eventually, the kid (or worse, his friends) will find the Wayback Machine, and then I'd be in trouble. After all, he'll know where I sleep.
Anyway, the discovery that we're having a boy was a great relief. This means that when the time comes in 15 or so (yes, I'm probably being grossly optimistic) years to have "the talk", I can say: "Son, have fun, just be sure to bag it up" instead of "honey, if he touches you, I'll fucking kill him, and send you to a convent".
If we wait until he's 15 to have "the talk," we may find ourselves looking at our own dear son's ultrasound of his own baby.
Congratulations! And 15 years from now, some soon-to-be papa is gonna come gunnin' for your boy.
Congratulations, man.
PS The term I would use during "the talk" is ZZ Top's cool-sounding "cover your rig."
