We went for the ultrasound today and the verdict is in: It’s a girl! We think. Ultrasounds aren’t certain, and we didn’t get a great look. Apparently our girl is modest and likes to stay curled up in the fetal position. Appropriate, huh? But we did get one solid look and the nurse thought it was pretty clearly a girl. So we’ll go with it (and if it turns out to be a boy he’ll now have something to blame any lifetime failures on).

I’m already starting to freak my way through the various duties that having a daughter will imply. At least Speak is used to being dressed up. In pink no less.

Having a teenage daughter is the utmost of those fears, though I’m taking refuge in the fact that I know a number of friends who have had daughters before me and will therefore hit the teenage years before me. I’m hoping I can learn from their mistakes and come through without going bald. And if that fails, we can commiserate together.

My other bit of refuge comes from pop culture. If Rory of the Gilmore Girls can be an amazing teenager, maybe there’s hope. Then again our DVD addiction has only taken us to midway through season two, so maybe it’s a bit early to make that claim. The second bit of pop culture refuge is more wisdom that reassurance, but it comes down to two rules from Ten Things I Hate About You that I may just be adopting:

What are the two house rules?

1. No dating ’till you graduate.
2. No dating ’till you graduate.

Ah, parenting tips from the TV. I’m screwed.

I already know I have a fruitful career ahead as the embarrassing father. Not only can I show friends and prospective boyfriends my mad yo-yo skills, but I can top it off with stories of being an actual street performer in Chicago.

At least we’ll spare our child the indignity of running a blog written in her voice full of embarrassing naked baby photos. You can get away with it for the dogs