A weird artifact of a planned Caesarian is that we just learned exactly when the Blueberry’s birthday will be, to the hour, three months ahead. So, barring an early labor, we already know her zodiacal sign and which older members of the family will henceforth have their birthdays forgotten.
I’m tempted to ask the obstetrician what Blueberry’s SAT score is going to be.
In all events, I’m not going to tell you the birthday or birth hour because I’m feeling all of a sudden a little shy about it. What if you come over to my house to steal my garden gnome because you know we won’t be here that day? (Actually, I might be home after all — you’ve been at one birth, you’ve been at ’em all, right?)
Besides, knowing me, I expect that within a month I’ll lose even this minor veneer of shyness and hold a contest to guess the day, anyway.