I lay in the chair and pulled down my jeans. The ultrasound technician rubbed blue gel on my stomach. She pressed the probe against my skin, and white lines formed and melted on the dark screen. She viewed my internal organs, and then we went for the baby.
It was lying still, a shadowy blob. It was very different then it was at nine weeks, when its curled head gave it the look of an unbalanced peanut. Now – it looked like a little baby. It was incredible. As she pushed for a better view – it started to move, flexing its back, so its body bucked in this bizarre ballet. It waved its arms and legs, and then it began summersaults.
“What did you eat for breakfast today?” the technician demanded, as she tried to push the little thing into a position where she could take the measurements she needed.
She probed harder into my belly, and the bean wriggled against the pressure, turning and moving away.
“Did you have coffee?” she asked, exasperated.
My bean is a hyperactive little thing.
I’m a super smiley proud mama.
I saw its little nose, its brain, its feet, its tiny fingers as it waved its hand at me (see little smudge next to face). It’s a real thing, people. A real living thing dancing around my belly.
I spent my whole childhood surrounded by babies – six younger than me in my immediate family, and by now, dozens of nieces and nephews. And yet – when its yours, it feels different. This can’t be what everyone else feels and experiences, I irrationally think. This it — so extraordinary. So amazing. So magical.Printable Version