ATLANTA -- We called it a sex party. But it's not what you think.
My wife, Sheryl, and I never hesitated on whether we wanted to find out the sex of our baby. But we also knew we didn't want the news to come at our doctor's office.
The thought of celebrating the news at a sterile medical building made her stomach turn. And that's never a good thing when you're pregnant.
So she came up with an elaborate plan to discover the news about the baby at our own home, surrounded by our closest friends. Here's how it worked:
We went to the doctor for the 20-week checkup, which is typically when an ultrasound can reveal the baby's gender. The technicians are used to handling requests from nervous parents who don't want to know the gender, but we surprised her a bit.
After she probed my wife's belly, checked the baby's vital signs and made sure all toes and fingers were accounted for, she told us to look away. She printed a picture of the baby's privates and wrote the gender on it for good measure. Then she sealed the photo inside an envelope.
Almost as soon as she handed us the envelope, we were both tempted to peek to see if we were having a Little Boy Blue or Little Girl Blue.
Luckily, though, we didn't have to resist long.
That night, my wife gave the envelope to one of her best friends, Jaime, for safe keeping. Jaime kept it by her side until she drove to a grocery store the next day and handed it to the baker along with a strange request: Look at the picture and bake a cake with blue icing inside if it's a boy and pink icing inside if it's a girl.
At first, I was a bit uncomfortable with the whole idea. It seemed strange to share such an intimate moment with our friends, and even weirder that the baker at Publix knew our baby's gender before we did.
Then we figured if we were going to be asked about the baby's sex, we might as well try to share it with everyone at once. And we also thought it would be a nice way to put some of our friends at ease, since we're among the first in our circle to have a baby.
Then again, as Sheryl reminded me, I didn't have much of a say on this one. After all, she's the one carrying the baby.
Our guests started coming over that Saturday night around 7, and two shoes greeted them in our foyer. We asked them to write their names on a slip of paper and tuck it into my giant loafer if they think it's a boy and Sheryl's slender stiletto if they think it's a girl. One winner would take home a prize -- a gag gift of baby oil.
Over the next few hours, about 50 friends gorged on a dozen pizzas and guzzled down some beer until it was time for dessert. Then we all gathered in the kitchen in front of the sheet cake, giving our guests a brief reminder of the import of the moment.
Anticipation mounted as we slowly cut into the cake, separating a piece.
I looked. Sheryl looked. I checked again. She checked again.
Cheers echoed through the house as we saw the pink icing. It's a girl!
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