Ultrasound, ultrasound on the wall…
For a month before the “gender ultrasound,” I could tell you exactly the amount of time before we’d find out about the thing growing in my belly.
“Two weeks, three days, one hour and 10 minutes until I know for sure,” I’d say. “I can’t wait.”
Really, I couldn’t. I had dreams about the baby being a boy and then the next night, a girl. The gender ultrasound was all I could think about. I’d call friends up just to guess what “type of baby I was having.”
The way I discussed it, you’d think I was going to The Gap to buy a sweater. “Hmm, is it a boy type or girl type? Do you think these come in size medium?”
The day of the ultrasound was like every Christmas, birthday and wedding day piled into one. It was ultrasound day! The baby! What “type” of baby was I having?
I ran into the ultrasound room, plopped onto the table and said “All I care about is knowing if it is a boy or girl. Let’s get this party started.”
The ultrasound tech, at this point, got a little testy with me. “Don’t you even care if the baby is healthy?”
“Of course I care. Right after I find out the gender.”