Getting an obstetrician pregnant has its distinct advantages.

For example, almost as soon as she took the first positive home pregnancy test, Sed was able to pinpoint a due date. Looking it up at work later proved she was only a few days off from the actual forecast of May 5.

It's manifested in other ways, too. Obviously, I'm not expected to know the technical details, but since she's already so well-versed I barely even have to know the basic overview. Where most first-time fathers-to-be are reading books and studying techniques and trying to alleviate their mates' worries, I can just sit back -- after all, there's nothing I can learn or say that she hasn't heard and said herself dozens of times a day. As she's told me, my part is pretty much over, except for the cheering.

Perhaps the most startling and important edge we've had so far, though, is that she knows a doctor who can tell the sex at twelve weeks.

Apparently, at this stage in the game the genitalia have started to form, creating what's technically known as the "nubbin." However, before about week 18 (the usual benchmark for sex determination) the pee-pee and the hoo-ha are still the same size and shape. (These are highly scientific medical terms; don't worry if you can't follow along.) But this doctor has learned that from the appropriate angle, he can see a distinct difference. If it's a boy, the nubbin tilts up, and if it's a girl it tilts down. It's an inexact science, he admits, but as long as he's been practicing (he's an attending doctor, so that's several years) he's never been wrong.

A lot of people like to be surprised by the sex of their baby. That doesn't make any sense to me. If the technology's available, I don't see any reason to wait -- it's a kid, not a Christmas present. You can return one ugly shirt, but a couple hundred bucks worth of wrong-gender baby clothes might be frowned upon. Besides, being something of an iconoclast, I want to know which opposite gender stereotype I'll be embracing. As for Sed, she can't handle suspense. She still pries open the wrapping on her actual Christmas gifts in advance, trying to sneak a peek, like we did when we were kids. Working near a sonogram machine all day every day for the next six and a half months would eventually prove too much for her sensibilities, even if she did want a surprise.

So now we come back to the name. And, similarly, to the due date. Look at it, for God's sake. Cinco de Mayo may not be a real Mexican holiday, but it's something we, as drinkers, love to celebrate nonetheless. It's as much a part of our household as birthdays and Thanksgiving. So we really don't feel we can justify giving our daughter a less apt name than Margarita Azul y Corona de Moya.



(Count your blessings. If she was a boy, she'd have been Jose Cuervo.)