When I was young – long before having children – I remember sitting around the dinner table when one of my aunts told me that she never found out the baby’s sex for any of her five pregnancies. Some of my cousins were aghast: how could you not find out when the information was available to you??

There are so few true surprises in life, she ruminated. The moment you meet your baby is among the best, the most beautiful. “It’s a boy!!” “It’s a girl!!” Why would you want to deprive yourself of that wonderful moment?

I was sold. I knew then that I would only find out my own child’s sex on its birthday. And because I went on to marry a (wise) man who followed my lead on all decisions related to pregnancies and preferences, this is exactly what we did.

Many people were shocked when they found out we were waiting to be surprised. “I could never do it; I’m too much of a planner,” they would often tell me. But nursery design, or baby registry supplies, or name selection, or even simply being able to better picture the life growing inside of me… none of these were compelling enough reasons for me to trade for that best, most beautiful surprise moment.

On J’s birthday (7 years ago tomorrow), I go into labor and have an infant in my arms only 7 hours later. It is fast and furious, and because it’s my first, I misunderstand and think the level of pain is going to sustain for the better part of the entire day. I certainly don’t realize that it’s so intense because I am already nearing the end by the time I’m in triage. I ask for an epidural, and the medical staff challenges me, saying that by the time it takes effect, the baby will basically already be here anyway. I insist, they relent, but then they challenge me again, saying they will not provide it unless I can stop writhing in pain during the now relentlessly frequent contractions. When my doctor arrives, I ask if it’s too late for a c-section — surely something is wrong internally that is causing this level of pain, and it feels as though organs are being ripped apart from the inside my body (spoiler: it is too late, this is standard fare for child delivery, I am having things ripped apart from the inside of my body, and ohmygoshhowhasthehumanspeciessurvivedthislong). He tells me to push, and two is all it takes.

There I am, breathless, sweaty, feeling both completely out-of-body and also desperately attuned to my body as I lay in the hospital bed. Someone places the baby on my chest. I am crying and laughing, and vaguely aware that it’s still possible the doctor miscalculated and although I did indeed deliver a baby, I am also dying of something that has clearly gone terribly wrong for me to be in that much pain.

Many months after this moment, I had a revelation. I missed the surprise! I was right there, I was a very active participant in the moment, but I fully missed the surprise.

Did the doctor shout, “it’s a boy!” as he pulled the baby from me? Did the nurse say it and smile as she placed him in my arms? Did they show Dave and have him proudly relay the news? Did I simply look at the baby and draw the connection without thinking about it??

For all the money in the world, I cannot answer this question. All I remember is thinking “oh thank God it’s over, and here’s a baby” in a state of elated shock. To be honest, had an airplane flown through the room in those moments, I’m not sure I’d have noticed even that. I somehow knew he was a boy, but I 100% missed the surprise.

In the end, I do think there’s something fitting about this “miss” in my first moments as a mother. Because though that first moment with my son was nothing like this grand, romantic vision I had concocted pre-children, it absolutely was the best and most beautiful.