Diary of a fledging father

PART 1 — GENDER REVEAL

Sitting at the doctor, waiting for Candide to get out from her pregnancy check.

Nervous, always nervous, my fingers are tingling, I hear screams, sometimes laughter, unclear where they come from. From the examination room, the street under the window, from within my head.

I have sat here a few times before, in this same, thoroughly helpless position. On occasions I sold my soul and services to God, if he only allowed the baby to be healthy, as I did this time.

She walked out of the doctor’s office once again, and a quick look at her told me all was well.

‘Do you want to know what it is?’

There was a lady entering the office after Candide; she left her jacket on the seat, and I was about to articulate this with words, but Candide’s message beat through with the force of a jackhammer.

‘The lady, she left the.. what?’

Slow trickling realization that Candide knew our baby’s gender. Combined with her uncontrollable smiling, left me with little doubt. The corners of my mouth dropped slightly.

‘I know it’s a girl, you know.’ Just by looking at you.

‘It's a boy!’

And she pulled out a wad of photographs, with one of them containing something akin to a fist showing a tiny middle finger, circled with a pen and the word ‘boy’ written out in childish handwritten letters of our doctor.

It was a moment of rush, of happiness and excitement. Candide, who all this time hoped for a girl, had her cheeks flushed with joy, not because she was secretly hoping for a boy, but because the baby that was on its way had become more tangible, more factual. Real.

As Candid pointed out, we had a problem. We didn’t have a name. We couldn’t agree on a boy’s name that would not remind us of someone we’d rather forget or doesn’t sound in Hungarian like a curse from the Half-Blood Prince’s potions book.

‘And what was wrong with Sebastian?’

‘You didn’t like the way it sounds in Hungarian. It’s Sebestyen’. As in [Shaeh-bash-tien].

‘Oh sweet lord Jesus.’

The uncertainties of not having a baby girl made Candid confront me with cluster bombs of unanswerable questions.

‘Will he still go to cafes to have coffee with me and chat?’

‘Unlikely’

‘Will he call me?’

I needed some context here.

‘Why wouldn’t he call you?’

‘You never call your mom.’

Punched deep under the belt, but I acted as if nothing could hurt me.

‘Whatever he does, you’ll call him anyway.’

‘Will he love me?’

A question we’ll have a lifetime to worry about.

It didn’t come unexpected, of course. All this time, while we were referring to unborn baby no-name, it was always a little girl, Isabella, Izzy, a daughter bathed in pink summer dresses, with braids and ponytails, calm, sweet, obedient to parental wishes. Now it was replaced by the mental image of a boy running around the apartment, amid flames scattered on the floor, leaving a trail of destruction.

We weren’t yet sure how we were going to do this. How we’ll raise a boy.

‘He’ll love you. He’ll be a real momma’s boy.’

That seemed to calm her, at least temporarily. She was hugging me as we were walking from the garage to the apartment, with an embarrassed little smile on her lips.

‘Will you teach him how to play hockey?’

‘Of course.’ Said I, confidently. On a scale of 1 to 10, my skills of playing hockey are not even on a scale because I never held a stick on ice, but I still said it with confidence. And meant it.

And the picture was slowly starting to develop, a boy in the apartment, walking the corridor, sometimes as a toddler, sometimes as a teenager, and is always met by my best future version, the athletic, wise, successful, heart-crushingly handsome father, who shepherds him toward becoming a gem of a human being.

Waking up early and going for a run. He doesn’t want to wake, my lovely lazy boy, the fresh rays of sun poking at his face. He does not yet fully grasp the logic behind the rush towards our best selves, but that’s okay. He needs that extra push from his dad to kick his butt out of bed and throw his running shoes at his head.

Then we’re at the gym together. And we’re talking in Mandarin. And we’re starting a band. Before we go to my study to continue programming the next Facebook.

The day always stops there — we never get past building the next Facebook. Even in imagination land, we hit a glass ceiling. All downhill from there.

Clearly, I wasn’t nearly as well-composed a person to provide such state-of-the-art parenting to my peaceful little fetus, so I needed a plan. A plan at least partially rooted in reality.

I guessed I could work on the athletic part first.