Finding out the gender of your baby seems to be something that most are doing – over 80% of expectant parents find out as soon as they are able. But not me. From the moment of conception, I have maintained my wish: to be surprised come the birth of Seahorse. Erroll made no bones about insisting on being told by our doctor, and I was just as adamant not to find out.
So here we are – at 31 weeks gestation – with the father of the child living life largely and most satisfactorily smug with the knowledge that the kicking critter inside of me is his bonnie wee boy or his ballerina daughter.
This leaves me wandering into baby stores scratching my head with each question I get from well meaning assistants and fellow expectant mummies: “So, what are you having?” In the minority I live, and happily I answer, “I am having a surprise!”