Last week I hit the 20 week milestone. The wait between our 12 and 20 week scan seemed to stretch on forever. Worrying voices niggled at me. Is baby ok? My body showed the burgeoning signs of pregnancy; a blooming stomach and buoyant breasts - as if reassuring me. Even the mirror tried to be my assuring friend; ‘No’ the reflection spoke back; ‘You’re pregnant. Look how much you’ve grown since you last wore those. They do NOT fit’. And then somewhere around week 17, perhaps stirred into action by a turbulent flight to Greece, from the depths within, I felt movement. The little one was indeed alive and kicking. I felt better.
Today we had our 20 week scan. Last night in bed, baby and I played touch ping pong. I pressed in on my tummy and he / she kicked back. Communication through a series of prods and kicks assured me that baby was still with me. The question preying on my mind was; is everything as it should be? Of the many people who knew about my scan today, virtually no-one asked; "Are you nervous?" It is an anomaly scan, after all. The question on everyone’s lips instead was; "Are you going to find out the sex?" I know I’ve asked the same thing of others. I hadn’t realised how irritating that can be, especially if you’re nervous or worried about how your baby might be developing.
Last week we made an emergency dash to hospital after some spotting. It all turned out to be fine, but in the run up to today, I was nervous, I was anxious, and frankly, all I cared about was that our baby was developing as a human should be at this point in time. As far as I was concerned, pink or blue didn’t really matter. The luxury of that knowledge could be a pleasant afterthought.
Thankfully, all was as it should be. With relief, we watched him/her bounce around a bit and got a superb side profile view of the face. It was fascinating to take a peek within and see our little one moving around, waving arms and legs at us and making sucking motions with his/her mouth.
"Would you like to know the sex?" the Sonographer asked us when she had established that everything else was ok. Did we want to know? We were undecided. Nothing we’d seen on the the screen in front of us had given anything away. In the end, we decided to keep our options open. The Sonographer agreed to write down the gender of our baby on a piece of paper and sealed it in an envelope for us.
As we left the hospital, we talked about the various grainy images we’d seen on the screen. We hadn’t even reached the car park when Husband said;
"I’ve got an inkling. Shall I tell you what it is?"
"Oooh, go on then," I grinned. "So have I".
"No way! I’m sure it’s a boy."
Clearly one of us isn’t destined for a second career conducting ultrasounds.
Right now, hidden in the kitchen, is a small sealed brown envelope containing an as yet, unknown secret.
Will we get to the end without opening it? I really don’t know. Would you be tempted?