It's been a long time since I had a baby.
Way back before gender-reveal parties.
Back then, we had a revolutionary way of disclosing the gender of our baby.
We told somebody.
On the phone or in person.
There were no pink or blue balloons that came out of a surprise box, no poppers, streamers, or puffs of smoke. No pink or blue things baked into a cake or hidden in a piñata. No confetti, no paint, no hair dyed pink or blue.
I don't mean to sound cranky.
I actually think gender reveal parties are a great idea.
Any excuse to throw a party is a great idea. Don't postpone joy.
In my own case, I didn't know Francesca was a girl until she was born, and her gender reveal came as a genuine surprise.
Unfortunately, I was in no mood to celebrate at the time.
My feet were in the stirrups, and I'd just deposited a surprise package on the delivery table.
And it wasn't the baby.
To return to point, as soon as I heard that there was such a thing as gender reveal parties, I wished I'd had one.
And it turns out that this week, I did.
But this baby has feathers.
Let me explain.
I have some very old hens who stopped laying eggs a long time ago, so over the summer, I ordered some new chicks from a hatchery. I'm keeping them in an empty horse stall until they are big enough to go into the coop, and they hang out all day, making cute noises like cooing, clucking, and squawking. They're really sweet birds, and they've all got different personalities, which is why I stopped eating chicken.
Eat more pasta.
Anyway, I ordered an assortment of different varieties of hens, and they came in an adorable array of colors: fuzzy yellow, soft brown, and some black and white. Over time, I noticed one hen was growing faster than the others, like a super chicken, and I named her Wonder Woman.
Until yesterday, when something amazing happened.
I was standing in the barn and all of a sudden I heard a weird noise coming from the chicken stall.
It sounded like, Cock-a!
So I went over to the chicken stall, looked at the hens, and realized Wonder Woman was making the sound. She stared me right in the face and, repeated, Cock-a!
So you know where this is going.
I was having a gender reveal party in the barn. And it came as a surprise to me. Because Wonder Woman is not a hen at all.
I have a rooster.
Who's learning to crow.
It's a boy!
And, secretly, I'm so happy.
I always wanted a rooster.
What good is a farm without a rooster?
He's too young to go with the whole cock-a-doodle-doo shtick, but I bet that's going to happen next.
And don't worry, the place is big enough so it won't disturb my neighbors with his morning crowing, or me either.
I can't wait until he starts cock-a-doodle-dooing.
That's so farmy!
It took me only a nanosecond to think of a name for him.
Can you guess?
If I'm going to have a man around the house, he should be named Bradley.
I told Francesca about the rooster and his name, and she said instantly:
"As in Bradley Chicken Cooper?"
Which I hadn't even thought of.
What could be more perfect?
All I have to do is teach him how to kiss me.