So The Big Day finally arrived.
After waiting and waiting and WAITING through days that felt like weeks and, eventually, hours that felt like days, I finally got to see my little bub again.
Although I’ve generally been pretty relaxed throughout my pregnancy, on this particular morning I’d woken early, with a sense of foreboding. I’m not sure why.
Perhaps because with no definitive movement I could categorically attribute to a tiny limb, and still with no bump to speak of, a pair of gigantaboobs and an increasing breathlessness were all I had to reassure me that Bub was still happy and developing well.
Naturally, The Baby-Daddy didn’t come to the scan. He said he had to work. Of course he did. He lives so far north that they haven’t invented days off up there yet.
But at least this time I was smart, and I didn’t bother to argue. I couldn’t see any point in upsetting myself. I just had a little sniff when I was all alone, and a quiet word with Bub, to remind my precious little bundle that I’m truly grateful for this opportunity and that I can’t wait for this little person to call me mum.
Anyway, I was fine attending the scan on my own. In theory. But all the same, I spent a few minutes combing the internet for reassurance, trying to ignore the nagging feeling that if everything was OK, surely I’d feel something by now? Surely I’d have at least the tiniest bit of a bump?
Of course, the forums were full of women who’d had a meagre bump for pretty much all of their pregnancy and had never felt a thing until they were seven months gone. But still, I couldn’t wait for the appointment to reassure me, and was glad that I had plenty of work to keep me occupied until the magic hour arrived.
Finally the hands of the clock dragged themselves past noon.
Keen to set my mind at rest, I set off for the hospital far too early. Thankfully, reception was almost empty, and I was called for my appointment ahead of time.
Settled in the chair, my belly covered in gel, I could barely speak to the radiographer, instead craning my neck to get a good view of the happenings inside the bump. At first, the tiny little body seemed so still that the panic simmered quietly inside me. Squeezed upside down and folded at a rather uncomfortable angle, the motionless little frame struck fear into my heart.
“It’s not moving much,” I ventured, my heart in my mouth.
“No,” said the radiographer, a picture of calm. “Looks like it’s having a snooze… Oh! There it goes! We’ve managed to wake it up!”
I quickly brushed away the little tear of relief that trickled down my cheek, and realised that I’d been holding my breath for far too long.
Patiently, I watched as she measured bones and checked arteries and vital organs, each time proclaiming Bub’s results to be good, very good or even excellent. She showed me the spine, the kidneys, the brain and the stomach and then finally – finally! – we got to the bit I’d been desperately waiting for: the gender.
“Aha!” said the nurse, indicating a fuzzy patch at the top of the screen. “Can you see that? That’s a little willy!”
I craned and strained my eyes to see … and yes! Yes, I could see! The Chinese Gender Predictor was right. It’s a boy!
“Oh look!” she said, “he’s put his hand on it.”
I watched as my clever little boy protected his modesty.
“Oh! Both hands!”
A proper lad, if ever there was one. All he needs is some trackie bottoms and a remote control and we’re away.
I could have watched my mesmerising offspring all day, but all too soon the nurse was wiping the gel from my belly and ushering me out of the door.
Reassured that my beautiful boy was safe and sound, I bounded obediently back to reception and sent the first of a gazillion jubilant texts trumpeting the joyful news.
A boy! A boy! I’m going to have a boy!
As good wishes flooded in from far and wide, I sent up a silent prayer that I’ll soon take on the dimensions of an over-inflated beach ball.
With no more scans due before Bubba’s birth, it may be the only way to keep me sane…