Back in September, my 12 week ultrasound had me entranced. I was at the stage where I knew I was pregnant, I felt pregnant, and yet I still had moments where I’d look at Crunchy husband and say, “I am pregnant, right?” When I sat back and had the gel smeared on my belly, I was excited, but I just wasn’t prepared for the first image I ever saw of my baby to be that of its beating heart. I didn’t expect movement, there right in front of me, of the baby growing inside me. Once I got over pinching back my tears, I just stared and stared. Or, stared and stared until I had to start performing acrobatics, and feats of unimaginable human skill - yes! I half emptied my bladder!- to coax it to move into position so the sonographer could take its nuchal measurements. I know medically that is why I was there, to make sure baby is healthy, but it doesn’t mean that I don’t enjoy seeing the life growing inside me, the visual-emotional connection with what’s inside.
Back in September, I had to wait about 35 minutes before being called into the scan room. Yesterday, at my 20 week scan, I was called in literally 1 minute past my appointment time. That should have been my clue that yesterday’s sonographer meant business. And business she meant. As I laid back, I said, “we don’t really want to know if it’s a boy or a girl, but we might ask you to write it down, if you can tell.” She responded with a bit of a smirk and that was the end of all chit chat. She turned her attention toward her screen and to the lady who we can only assume was training, and explained each image as she went. This flap here, that liquid there, arm bones, ribs, heart connections, all normal and healthy. Even though it wasn’t really directed at me, it was nice to hear the explanations. At one point she had us turn our head to measure the thigh bone, just in case other bits might be showing, if present. Though her brusqueness was a bit off putting, I am grateful to know the scan was done correctly and seriously, and that I can trust the results sheet when it says, “normal”.
Though this check was much more clinically driven, a check list of body parts and measurements to tick off, it still was magical for me. I realized pretty soon into the scan that the sonographer wasn’t really talking to me, and so I just sat back, tried not to laugh when the baby kicked or moved its hands, and just let her do her thing. She spent a lot of time looking at the heart, and that just amazes me, to know that there is another heart beating inside me right now. One moment, baby looked so peaceful, just chillin’, sitting back and relaxing, taking it easy. And then the angle changed and you could see it was clenching its fist, you could count the knuckles, ready to punch mommy. Cool. My kid’s got balls.
Or, not. We don’t know. Turns out the sonographer didn’t look. She was closing up shop, wiping my belly, and I was like, “um, well would you mind looking and writing it down?” You could tell she thought that I was really silly, but with a hint of exasperation, she did it. I tried explaining that while we like the anticipation now, we are not sure we are going to want to wonder for another 20 weeks. I had a feeling she wanted to say, “that is not what we’re here for,” which I understand, but thankfully she did it anyway.
So, though we don’t know the baby’s sex, we could know. The answer rests in the sealed envelope inside my maternity folder, right next to the scans of my baby looking this time much more like a baby and less like I had a fling with an alien.
The envelope’s sealed, mom. We’ll know if you peak when you come for Christmas.
