A note about language: I’ve been thinking about the words we use to describe the act of having and caring for children. It’s strange to think of myself as a “father” but I’m getting more comfortable with the idea of myself as a “parent.” “Parenting” and “mothering” are, more or less, synonyms (if there’s a difference, it’s that mothering takes on a negative connotation when used figuratively—nice going, sexists). To “parent” or to “mother” a child is a lifelong process, an ongoing, never-ending, fairly selfless act of nurturing, caring, and sustaining another human being.

But to “father” a child? You can father a child in an instant, and that’s the end of it. Our stupid sexist language makes fatherhood a discrete act—an achievement rather than a process. I don’t want to make any impossible promises or any lofty claims, but I would like to try, for these two children, to make “fathering” something better.

Rachel and I have decided not to find out in advance what the sexes of the twins are. Partly, this is because we like the idea of being surprised, but mostly (for me at least) I don’t want anyone to know in advance whether we’re having boys or girls because I do not want to be inundated with pretty pink princess crap, or sports and cowboys crap. DO NOT WANT.

It’s odd to me how common it is to find out the sex of your unborn baby. In our twins class, we’re the only couple out of 9 who didn’t already know what they were having. When we went to Babies “R” Us to start our registry, the woman at the checkout was apalled that we weren’t finding out. “But,” she pleaded, “how will you buy bedding?”

I get it that, traditionally, pink clothes and sheets with flowers and such are for girls, while blue stuff with balls and trucks and cars are for boys, but I can’t shake my bafflement that anyone thinks a one-month old cares what’s printed on his or her crib sheet. Even burpcloths are gendered. Burpcloths! Because, God knows, if a boy throws up onto a towel with flowers on it, it will turn him gay.

I swear, if we have a girl, I’m totally dressing her in this “chick magnet” onesie. Because this makes me kind of queasy.