I read that 8 out of 10 people find out the sex of their baby before its birth. Though I was surprised by that statistic (really, that many?), I understand why people are eager to know as soon as the opportunity presents itself at the anatomy ultrasound. First, there’s the obvious logistical appeal: once you know if it’s a boy or a girl you can proceed with wall painting, pattern picking, or name searching made 50% easier when flipping through a book called “10,000 Baby Names”. Some people feel like they are lugging around a stranger in their bellies if they don’t know. After the sex is revealed, they can picture the baby better, imagine being parents of a son or a daughter, or even start calling Baby by his or her given name way ahead of its birthday debut.

I get all this and appreciate it. But Toph and I have really enjoyed being in the dark for these 36 weeks. It feels a little like a right of passage, having to wait and wonder. It’s the closest I’ve felt to the anticipation of Christmas morning since I was a kid.

We most commonly address the baby simply as “Baby”, though every once in a while we’ll try out a name we like or we’ll just call the baby an amalgamation of several of the names we like—boy and girl—at once. It’s a little like he or she has the upper hand, and is giggling at us out here trying to figure out which pronoun to use when talking about him/her (see?).

For me, there’s also the consideration of reserving the big reveal as sort of a carrot at the end of the long stick of labor. In the moment(s) of defeat, there will still be that huge, exciting, precious unknown sparkling hopefully ahead. Gotta get there. Want to get there. What else in life is as satisfying or exhilarating as that particular moment when you learn, “It’s a _____ !”?

The truth is, as we near the end of this extended eve of parenthood, the gentle daily tug-of-war between patience and pressing curiosity is one of the many, many things I’ll miss when it’s over and the big secret has been revealed.

Topher and I are both lucky to have two grandparents—his paternal grandmother and my maternal grandfather—in their early eighties who our child will call “great”. We both loved sharing the news with each of them and I’d say that in the months that have followed, their advice has been, well, the greatest.

Topher’s grandmother, whom we call Mimi, is the mother of seven, including a set of twins. She is grandmother to eleven and great-grandmother to one, soon to be two.

Mimi is the picture of class, her hair always perfectly coiffed and her wardrobe tucked and buttoned up just right. Her favorite colors are pink and Kelly green. When she speaks, she holds your attention with a slow, purposeful, articulate presentation of thoughts, which often make you chuckle or outright chortle unexpectedly in the end.

When we called Chicago one night in August to tell Mimi she’d be Mimi the Great, we talked with her for a long while. Before Topher passed the phone to me she said, “Well, Topher, I’m so happy for you, and I’m so happy for Tara. But mostly, I’m happy for me.”

My turn came to say hello and the first thing I said to this woman who had been where I am so many times was, “Mimi, I can’t believe you did this seven times! I need some advice!”

She replied, “Oh honey, I don’t have any to give. The only thing I can say is give that child a lot of love. That’s it.”

Grampy, my grandfather, is one of the wittiest, most intelligent people I know. He’s been to hell and back with health troubles in recent years, and has rebounded in a way that proves he is the son of my great-grandmother, Margaret, who lived on her own in a two-story New England house until she was 92.

Gramp was with us at the dinner table in August for my dad’s birthday when Toph toasted “to new birthdays”, letting everyone know we were expecting in March. There was lots of hootin’ and hollerin’, but Gramp was quite at the head of the table, eating his steak and buttered corn.

“Did you hear the news, Dad,” my aunt Susan asked.

“Yeah, I heard it. I had a hunch,” Gramp said.

The next day, after we’d packed up the car to head back to Philadelphia, everyone gathered in the driveway, which is customary for departures in my family. Gramp gave me a big, tight hug and said, “Good luck with your new adventure!” I looked at him with wide eyes and probably something of a trepidatious smile.

“And remember,” he added in an assured, confident tone, “this has been done before.”

It was like he saw right through both Topher and me, to the core of our nervous pre-parent existence and poured a solvent of common sense and practicality on our anxieties.

We’ve been reading a lot of books and articles since July 2, 2009 and the majority has been incredibly helpful. But when I think of the few pieces of advice Mimi and Grampy the Greats have given us, I wonder if they aren’t the ones who should be published and widely read instead.

The word “amazing” should be reserved for the ultrasound given at  around week 20. It feels futile to write about it because I just end up  flailing around in verbiage, trying to describe what it’s like to look at a  computer screen that is relaying an image of a tiny person in my own  body who didn’t exist a few months prior.

It’s appropriately called the anatomy ultrasound because the technician  takes a lengthy gander at everything growing inside the baby, inside  you. It’s nearly all there, which is flabbergasting. It takes weeks for me  to grow fingernails worthy of polish, so it seems impossible that a brain,  spinal cord, kidneys, bladder, beating heart, chubby little cheeks, teeny  tiny toes, and long legs (I mean look at the legs on that kid!) can just  sprout up out of thin air. But thank God and count the blessings, it’s all there.

I surprised myself by not crying. I was just wide-eyed, with a dropped, grinning jaw. It was tough to decide whether to look at the screen or at Topher at any given moment because he is the only other person on earth who could be feeling what I was feeling.

The technician and the doctor seemed giddy with approval after investigating their findings. I felt like a million bucks because their chipper medical thumbs up implied that ours was one of the healthiest kids they’d seen all day. Who knows if they emit the same exact energy to everyone who comes through, like the bridal consultants who help girls try on wedding gowns. But I know enough stories to feel grateful that those twenty minutes of technological wonderment were proof of “so far, so good”. That phrase means everything to expectant parents.

I’ve seen a few things in my life that earn a synonym of the word amazing, like the sunrise at Haleakala National Park or my five-day-old niece who emerged early and made it to our wedding day. But amazing should be set aside for this event.

I’m at a loss for the word that might actually capture a baby’s birth. I’ll let you know if it comes to me in a few months.

Well before this pregnancy, I was talking with a dear friend about my curiosities and apprehensions toward parenthood. She was only recently inducted into motherhood and has been enjoying her first-born’s first everything since March. We’ve spoken at length on many occasions about having children, both of us confessing to holding out against Mother Nature as long as possible. A shared defense of deferment is the prioritization of our careers; my friend is also a food and writing colleague. In hindsight, she wishes she had embarked so much sooner.

Among the reasons why I, and I think lots of members of my generation feel wary about bringing a child into this world is the world itself! It can be kind of a creepy place, with war, weirdos, “sexting”, drugs, greed—the list runs on its own legs. Before you write me off as some kind of Debby Downer for heeding the lousiness of society, I do declare that I am generally an optimist with faith in the good of the universe. But contemplating procreation employs deep, sweeping thought. The bad stuff is awfully conspicuous.

My friend said something that day that struck a cord and stuck with me. I shared it with Topher later, and took it to heart as I continued to imagine our life ahead. She argued that the world’s good people have an obligation, if possible, to bring more good people into it, for the sake of it. I’d never thought of it that way. Sure, the philosophy may add extra pressure on a parent-to-be, already nervous about bringing up a kid right, but it’s sturdy reasoning for one’s purpose in this life.

I have plenty of room for improvement, but I fancy myself a good soul. If Toph and I can contribute a good egg to the next generation, we should give it a go. Maybe by the time our child is contemplating parenthood the world will be a better place for his or her offspring.