Their appointment with the doctor last week brought results of whether it's a boy or a girl and the new trend is to announce the news at a reveal party. The mom-to-be put my boyfriend in charge of the reveal, and even though I know I can't be trusted, not to leak this kind of information, it was frustrating not knowing immediately.
He met them at the doctor's office and they passed off a sealed envelope with the results. Two days later everyone came together, for what, we didn't know. It was a secret what the gender was and a secret how it was to be revealed. That's one too many secrets for me.
I tried every angle I could to get the information out of him. He wasn't budging and was continuously sneaking items in for the party, locking them in a closet. Was it too much to ask, as the grandma, to be let in on the big reveal? I finally had to resort to just not talking to him, since he wasn't falling for my questions of "do you prefer pink or blue?"
My daughter didn't fare any better as she kept asking him for clues. Finally he said the reveal would include the number eight and it holds body parts together. That didn't sound like a clue for a reveal to me, it sounded like a horror movie.
Finally the day came and with 30 family and friends gathered in the kitchen, as instructed, we waited nervously as the reveal was about to take place.
Behind closed doors my boyfriend asked if we were ready. I was ready two days ago. Opening the door, the black lab and golden retriever (eight legs) ran out to greet everyone with blue bandanas tied around their necks (holds body parts together). There was a whole lot of hoopin' and hollerin' and high-fivin' goin' on as my daughter cried and her husband puffed out like a proud rooster.
I just kept repeating over and over, "It's a boy! It's a boy!" as the dogs ran around as if they had just completed the best trick in the world.
Even though we all knew the gender, the boyfriend produced cupcakes he bought that had blue and pink icing on top and were blue on the inside, blue fireworks, blue smoke bombs and a tiny pair of Carhartt overalls. I think he might be a little excited it's a boy.
It's time for me to go shopping.
Sandy Turner lives in the Kansas City area and writes this column for GateHouse Media.