The Lab of Horrors

It'll all be over soon, I said to myself through gritted teeth. Just look away. Look away. Look away. Look away. It was like a mantra. I stared out the window down onto the late afternoon traffic in Davis Square in Somerville. The smell of rubbing alcohol hung in the air. I tensed my body from head to toe. I clenched my fists, curled my toes, and took in a deep breath. Look away!

Then slowly, calmly, the blood drained from Annabelle's left arm.

This past week, we had Annabelle's nine-month check-up. I'm happy to report she's gaining weight (17 pounds, 11 ounces), growing tall (28.5 inches), and developing normally. Overall, she's pretty darn healthy. And best of all, this time, after shots, shots, and more shots at her last few appointments, we were in the clear at this nine-month check-up.

Or so the nurse led us to believe.

We absolutely love Annabelle's pediatrician. She's smart, funny, and, as you might expect, wonderful with kids. But when she said, "Oh, and just some quick lab work before you go to test her iron," she was suddenly family enemy #1. Lab work? You mean today? Are you sure?

The relief and happiness from a great appointment already a distant memory, we clutched our post-appointment summary and somberly rode the elevator down to the second floor. A high school girl and Annabelle exchanged big smiles on the way down. Bridget and I stared ahead, wondering what the next 10 minutes of our lives would be like.

"Oh, a baby! She's so cute." The receptionists at the lab were all smiles, too. "Just sign that sheet and have a seat with the little one."

Look, no one likes lab work. No one likes giving blood. No one likes needles. As we sat patiently in the waiting room, I could feel the prick in my arm and the obligatory butterflies in my stomach. Poor Annabelle, I thought. She's going to be a puddle of tears. 

They called us to come in. Bridget and I had been handing Annabelle back and forth (she always likes the person who isn't holding her a little bit better), but I ended up with the hot potato. Together, we walked slowly down the hall toward a small room.

"Just go have a seat in the corner by the window," the cheery technician said.

"So, yeah, I'll hold her?" I asked Bridget, remembering that she had taken the lead with all the shots up until now.

"Sure, I mean, if you want to."

With Annabelle in my lap, I sat in the small, unforgiving grade-school desk, complete with the bar that came over the top of us. Annabelle banged on the desk as if it was her high chair, expecting another handful of Cheerios. The poor thing. She has no idea what's coming. This is awful. 

A collection of tiny needles and tubes sat to our left. The technician, a brunette girl in her late 20s named Becky, tied a tiny rubber band around Annabelle's left arm and searched for a vein. No luck. She tried the right arm. No luck. Back to the left. The chunky, 42-week-old arms were not cooperating. Finally, Becky found something.

"Hold on one second now," she said. "I just need to get my co-worker to help hold her down."

What's that now? Hold her down? Are we sawing off her leg after a Civil War battle? Hold her down?!

Another woman came in and immediately started bouncing around the room and smiling at Annabelle. She tried her best to distract us from the tiny needle that Becky held in her hand.

"Dad, make sure you have a really tight bear hug," she said. "Whatever you do, don't let go of that right arm."

Wait, what? This is serious. Are her arms going to flail? Is this a reflex? Is she about to lose it?

I hugged Annabelle as tightly as I could and stared out the window. It was over before I even knew it started. And Annabelle? Not a peep. She let out a quick yell when they withdrew the needle, but she'd already missed the action. They tied a neon green bandage around her arm, gave her a "Terrific Patient" sticker, and she was all smiles the rest of the afternoon.

Me? I'm still tense and nervous as I sit here writing this. It was a traumatic experience. And, well, I'm darn lucky to have a little daughter who will toughen me up a bit.

The Baby Boy Bias

Last week, during our family vacation in Seattle, a man approached me and Annabelle at the Chihuly Garden and Glass Exhibition.

"Hey," he said. "I saw you yesterday. I recognize your (San Francisco) Giants hat."

"Oh, yeah, right," I said.

"Yeah, you were reading to your son in the library. I wanted to yell, 'Go Giants,' but it was a library and all."

"Oh, it couldn't have been me then," I said. "I don't have a son. This is my daughter, Annabelle."

"Oh, right, whatever. Well, yeah, go Giants!"

Then he walked away. I chuckled at first, but then I thought, wait, no. No, dude. Not whatever. There's a big difference in what you just said. What if I walked up to you and said, "Excuse me, miss"? So, no. Not whatever.

Baby boy bias, that is, the belief that every father wants only sons and that every small baby who doesn't have super long hair and earrings is a male, is very real. I started experiencing it long before Annabelle was born and now, a full 9 1/2 months later, it's still popping up almost weekly.

It started about halfway through Bridget's pregnancy, when we found out the little bump in her belly was made of sugar and spice. I said I didn't care if it was a boy or a girl, and I meant it. But some of my friends didn't believe me. Come on, they said, you tell everyone you don't care because that's what you're supposed to say. But you want a boy, right? Everyone wants a boy.

But why? Why does everyone want a boy?

So I can teach him how to play sports? (Girls play sports.) So I can relate to him? (Dads relate to daughters.) So we can become best friends? (I fully intend to be best friends with Annabelle.) Because I rule over the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros and need a male heir to sit on the Iron Throne? (That's silly, but what a great season finale, right?)

Since Annabelle was born, things have gotten even worse with the baby boy bias. When he walk down the street, people ask about the "little guy's" name. In elevators, they ask us how old "he" is. And when Annabelle wears a blue shirt (like the one in the photo above)? Forget about it. The shirt might as well read: "100% Stud. Proceed with Caution."

Now, sure, I'll admit that Annabelle's gender isn't immediately clear. She's mostly just a squishy lump with a wispy head of hair and no teeth. But why does everyone always think boy first and girl second? Does she need to wear all pink all the time? Tiny, little pig tails? Or should we just get her high heels and a mini skirt, and teach her how to wear mascara?

We hope to have another child someday. And yes, part of me wants it to be a boy. I'd say just about 50 percent of me. The other 50 percent is hoping for another girl. Either way, if they are anything like Annabelle, they'll be absolutely perfect.

In the meantime, I'll just keep correcting people and hope the ripple effect will make people think twice before immediately fist-bumping my little slugger. (And by the way, girls hit home runs, too.)