I’m a lifelong baseball fan. I GET baseball. I am really, really terrible at math, unless it’s baseball math, and then I am still pretty terrible at math but I GET IT slightly more and hate it slightly less. When I think about raising our kids in a STEM-focused household I always say to myself, “and Imma start with baseball.” But sadly, I am an Atlanta Braves baseball fan. It’s not my fault. My parents did this to me at a young age. And try as I might to shake the Braves in favor of the sometimes more winning and definitely closer in proximity San Francisco Giants, I just can’t quit the traitorous (SunTrust Park, Braves? Really?), racist (please stop tomahawk chopping, it’s legitimately heinous), good ole boy Atlanta Braves of Cobb County. My home, my heart. Sigh.
I am also pregnant. Being pregnant and a Braves fan in the year of our lord Jesus Christ 2014 has sometimes meant necessarily, temporarily tuning out baseball lest I cause permanent damage to our fetus with the ever-more-heightened anxiety the perpetually circling-the-drain Braves brought me this season. It’s been a tough year. I shake my fist at you, Evan Gattis’ kidney stones, and don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out, Frank Wren!
Tuning out the #LOLBraves for a few minutes has left a gaping sports hole in my life (a sports hole is not a real thing, I made that up), and to fill that hole, I have decided to hate football a little less this year. (I am also an Atlanta Falcons fan, which is in no way better than being a Braves fan except for the fact that the Falcons are only disappointing once a week. My family also did that to me at a young age before briefly abandoning ship for the Steelers those few years they lived in Pittsburgh because dammit sometimes we want to watch a team WIN but then Ben Roethlisberger was born, so we hastily retreated and now here we are, right back where we started, sad Atlanta Falcons fans 4 lyfe.)
To that end, and also mostly because I needed something to do in the limited-mobility remaining weeks of this pregnancy, I re-upped my commitment to our office confidence pool, joined my first ever fantasy football league, and let Randy talk me into creating a pick’em pool for baby wherein our family, friends and complete strangers can bet on everything from Baby’s birth weight (TREAD LIGHTLY, FRIENDS) to Baby’s gender. (Math tip: The gender odds are 50-50.) (Usually.) (I think.)
Of course, framing a conversation about Baby’s gender in an NFL context has caused its own special kind of anxiety and in a much broader, heavier, urgent sense than the minor annoyance the Brothers Upton have wrought upon House Nattis. At the end of every sports news segment where we learn gruesome new details about a footballer harming someone who is not a footballer (like a wife or a child, for instance), I get on my soapboax and spit fire to no one in particular* about how things are going to go in our house once this baby gets here, regardless of whether we have a boy or a girl. *Randy is sometimes the audience for these rants and sometimes not because if he leaves the room I’m in it will take me 20 minutes to get to the room he’s in and I will have lost my train of thought by then.
So far, the responses to our pool are 51 percent in favor of us having a girl, 49 percent in favor of us having a boy, and at least one friendly friend has prophesied that we will be welcoming a 22-pound, gorilla-sized baby person. Thanks, TJ!
Do you have a good track record with predicting baby stats? Or any advice for how to raise a baby gorilla? Are you also a sad sports fan? Share with us here! We promise to maybe take your comments and suggestions under advisement, unless I’m in charge, because I will definitely not remember I promised that, because hashtag baby brain. And we will share the results of the pool in a future post, although aforementioned baby brain caveat applies to that promise too. Happy pickin’!