A womb with a view

20 weeks 6 days 

 First off, let’s all just take a second and recognize the fact that I’m more than halfway there (unless this kid wants to stay in there for more than 40 weeks. And I’m trying to will that not to happen.) So I’m going with halfway there. Hurrah. 

As anyone who has had a baby, or has been close to someone who has had a baby, or you know, has ever known anyone in the history of the world who has had a baby surely knows, the 20 week mark is when things start to get really interesting. You start to feel kicking. You start to really look pregnant (I really look whoa pregnant...like someone-- actually three different someones-- asked me if I was close to full term last week. Up until that moment, I was still basking in the glow of my “I’ve made it halfway there!”-ness. Yeah. That fizzled fast.) 

And MOST importantly (to most people at least) 20 weeks is the point at which the ultrasound folks can, with a pretty decent level of accuracy tell whether or not you’re having a boy or a girl (or an alien. We’re definitely having an alien.) 

Now let me first say this. I have, my entire life, prided myself on being the ONE person that can, with 95% accuracy predict the gender of my friends’ baby bumps. I’m really good at it. I’m almost never wrong. And so, when I found out I was pregnant, the first thing that came out of my mouth was “Obviously, this is a boy.” 

And I never wavered. In fact, every person I met said “Oh, it’s totally a boy,” before I even offered my opinion. Our parents said boy. All my girlfriends said boy. Yup. Of course it is. We mostly only thought about boy names. I only looked at blue/ green/ yellow/ brown nursery sets and clothes. I recalled the times I had done the “gold-ring-on-a necklace” trick and the shady trips to the second rate psychic. Every single time the same—I’ll have two kids, a boy and a girl, in that order. Every single one of my pregnant girlfriends (and yes, believe it or not, I have 6 right now) were ALL having girls and so just by the sheer law of averages, I was going to have a boy (a boy who would have his pick of the ladies, clearly.)

But more than gut feelings and psychic friends, there was the part of me that always thought of a boy as being much easier and a better fit for my personality. Most of my closest friends growing up were boys. I’m not girlie or high-maintenance or…pink. What on earth would I do with a *girl*? I myself was Daddy’s little girl, given more to Legos and bikes and playing outdoors than I was to Barbies and make-up and dance recitals. What did I know about raising a girl? (Except for the 6 years I spent professionally living with teenaged girls in boarding schools…which pretty much solidified my view that girls are impossible to raise and that a boy would be infinitely easier to deal with.)

 And so, based on all this very rational and reasoned information, obviously, this child was a boy. The day of the 20 week ultrasound was upon us. I was excited for the confirmation of our little boy’s, well, parts all being there and all, but I wasn’t really concerned about that piece. Honestly, because I’m an “elderly pregnancy” this ultrasound was the one where they do a deep dig into all the things that could be developmentally askew: Check for normal growth, ensure that all the right parts are growing at the right rate in the right places, measure skull size for indications of Downs Syndrome, look for face abnormalities like a cleft palate or a missing ear. THESE were the things that occupied my mind as we went into the appointment, not the baby’s gender. 

Because of course, irony follows J everywhere he goes, and this being the one most important doctor’s appointment to be present for in the whole deal, there was miserable traffic that made J late to the ultrasound appointment. I was late too by a few minutes, but J was whoa late, stuck in the inexplicable DC traffic that jams without notice and clears without cause. 

They took me back and the lovely ultrasound tech started with all the “technical pictures”: Head? Check. Normal looking nose/ mouth/ palate region? Check. Thickness of skull? Check. All the fingers and toes? Check x 20. Perfect little spine running exactly down the back? Check. (This, by the way, was the point at which I started crying my face off. Seeing feet and hands. Nothing. A spine? And I’m a blubbering idiot.) 

“You child looks very strong and healthy. Right size. Good growth. These were great pictures—exactly what we want to see at this stage. We’re basically done. I know what you’re having. Should I tell you?” 

“Please not until my husband gets here. He’s on his way. He’ll be so sad if he misses this.” 

Now, up until this point in the story I have had only marginal experiences with my doctors at the center. But this day, they sort of went above and beyond, and being nicer and more reasonable than anyone should be, she agreed to take the next patient, and come back to me in about 20 minutes, thus giving J the opportunity to battle traffic and get there in time so that we could learn the gender of our child together. I was overwhelmed by her kindness. 

“Besides, this kid moves around A LOT. I could stand for some better pictures of the heart and could get you a better picture of the, well, thing you came to see today.” 

And so she left. And I waited. And in walked J, almost an hour later than he anticipated, ready to basically kill people. (It didn’t help that I had gotten weepy during the first ultrasound and he walked in to a wife that had been crying.) I had just enough time to convince him these were happy tears and that our child was perfect and healthy when back came the ultrasound tech. We started again. 

“Well then,” she said as she waved the magic roller ball over my belly. “This is much better. Evidently now that dad’s here, we’re putting on a show.” (I should have known right then...)

Yup. In walks J, and not only does our wee one stop moving around like a crazy person, but turns and lays still for perfect pictures of the heart that we couldn’t get earlier. “Now we have an even better picture of your child’s gender. Do you want to know now?” 

J looks up at the screen at that moment, studies it carefully and says, “Those are ovaries. This is a girl.” 

The ultrasound tech smiled. “Yes! It’s a girl! Congratulations!” 

I looked at her, completely dumbfounded. “Hmm? Are you sure?” And as IF on cue, in one of her earliest acts of defiance against her mother, she moves and SPREADS HER LEGS in a manner that shows us all her lady parts (and yes, we do have that picture.) 

“Well clearly we’re going to have to teach her some manners before middle school.” This was all I could come up with. 

I sat there, slightly overwhelmed, thinking about the news. A *girl.* What? It was unexpected to say the least. (J sat there trying REALLY hard not be smug, but with a shit-eating grin on his face the whole time. He so wanted a little girl. This was his dream come true.) 

And so we left, I in a daze, J in a drunken happiness stupor. She had said girl. I had a picture of the lady parts in my hand to prove it. Unbelievable. 

It struck me that our ultrasound not only gave me a bird’s eye view of our little girl, but changed my entire outlook on this pregnancy. Suddenly, staring at that ultrasound picture, I was 15 years in the future, imagining the prom dress shopping and make-up tips and break-ups, wondering if I had it in me to get out the Barbies and start the dance lessons—things I just hadn’t even taken the time to consider until now. I thought about my mom and how she dealt with a daddy’s little girl (which this child will inevitably be) and how to come to grips with the balancing act of raising a girl to be strong and independent and knowledgeable without being hard and or unfeeling. 

And then, as hard as it may be to believe, I went home and put pink things on a registry. Baby steps, indeed. 

I’m not sure what other people see when they see that first ultrasound. But for me, I saw a whole new world, an entirely new view on what was going to happen next. I’m going to be the mom to a little girl. God helps us all.