Well, the fetus is gay already. It hasn’t even proved that it’s viable yet and it’s draped in a rainbow flag.
I was first inappropriate in the ultrasound tech’s room by gleefully shouting, “Holy shit! The alien has a heartbeat!” The lovely, understanding ultrasound tech – with her cute pseudo punkass dye job – was a consummate professional. She demonstrated how to call it a “Little One” and wasn’t remotely awkward about Partner’s and my clearly non-standard appearance. She guided the glowing radar paddle across my belly with aplomb and grace, gently coaxing the Little Alien to show us its good side for sacral neck fold counting. But the Larvae was having none of it and repeatedly turned it’s back at the camera, flipping us off and mooning us all at once.
This is when the ultrasound tech noticed the Thing’s arms. At first it seemed just a chatty comment on the limb’s positioning, and then, when her pleasant astonishment continued, it became apparent that our Alien was gifted in the long and lanky department.
“Wow, that arm is really out there. I mean, that is a really long arm. Did you see those knuckles?”
And then, in a move familiar to all who have sat next to my lewd lesbian humor for more than thirty seconds, I held up my hand and said, to the sweet, thoughtful ultrasound tech, “Have you seen these?” Wiggle, wiggle. Wink, wink.
I am gifted with the ultimate lesbian hands. My fingers are long enough to tickle ribs from knee-height, skinny enough to fit into even the tightest spaces and my gangle arms and elbows provide excellent leverage. Everybody notices my fingers, whether I point them out or not. I should have played piano, I should have played basketball, I should have played something other than your mom on her plastic-covered sofa, which is great protection she squirts.
But every once in a while, somebody notices my fingers’ length without recognizing the obvious lesbian applications. Before the ultrasound tech, there was the distant relative at the family reunion who didn’t realize that I was the gay black sheep, banished for my digital prowess. The poor, poor dear went on and on and on, embarrassing herself by talking to the black sheep for long, unaware minutes on end – “Hm. No basketball? No piano? What could you do with those fingers? What could you possibly do with such long, long fingers? There must be something that you could do with those long fingers!” – whilst my ne’er do well friends made steamy, rude gestures out of her field of vision and preponderance.
It’s looking like the little alien will inherit these disproportionately queer carpals of marvel status. We can’t even tell if it has a penis yet, but those little knuckles are flailing out there, just looking for somebody to wonder about their possible uses. Like it wasn’t already guaranteed to be gay, even before the outstanding appendages.
Once kids can make their own will known, I generally respect their wardrobe and activity choices, but until that time, they are excellent accessories. Whichever set of chromosomes pops out is going to be doing some tree climbing and flower picking in a pink sequined shirt with blue overalls and holes in the knees. Until it can pick it’s own tutus, hairdos and footwear, it will be dressed in a steady stream of rainbow jumpers, plaid flannels and prissy argyle sweater vests. Bow-ties if they make them that small.
It’s going to grow up surrounded by musicals, trance techno, folk music and socially conscious hiphop. It’s going to eat tempeh and sustainably farmed local beef while snickering at tuna salad, fish taco and sausage fest jokes. I predict it will have impeccable “How does your stuffed elephant identify?” gender manners by kindergarden. It’s gonna have uncles with boobs and aunties with testicles and very confused grandparents who love it anyway.
Even if this prospective kid wasn’t refusing authority to moon the finger-impressed ultrasound tech, I’d say it’s pretty much guaranteed to be gay. At least culturally. And if it decides, in true identity politics form, to label itself otherwise, who better to sympathize with it’s feelings of estrangement from it’s natal culture than parents who have to fight to stay in the queer boat anyway? I guess it can be whatever it wants, so long as it understands u-haul jokes and why the lab tech is blushing at its firm yet supple fist. We’ll invite it home for holidays even if it dresses boringly and refuses to admit that Amy Ray is the hottest thing since pre-packaged baked tofu.