When I was pregnant with Kenzie, the technician who did my 20 week ultrasound told me the baby was going to be a nine pounder, and she moved my due date up by a week. Later, when I anxiously asked my doctor if that was accurate, he rolled his eyes and said the tech had no business making those predictions. And of course it all turned out to be horseshit: I gave (brave, inspirational) birth to a six pounder four days after my original due date. (Yeah…I gained 50 pounds and only six pounds of it was baby. That’s gotta be some kind of record.)
These days, even if your fetus gets the all-clear, my doctor doesn’t like the ultrasound tech to say one way or the other (so they don’t blow your mind by telling you you’re going to birth an ogre). We get a call from him within 24 hours if there’s something we need to know about.
I don’t know if this is just me being neurotic or if all pregnants are this way, but until I get that all-clear, I’m a nervous wreck. I feel like I’m tempting fate even thinking optimistically about my child’s future before I’ve been reassured that she’s fine in the present.
But we had the scan on Thursday, and after 76 hours I finally allowed myself to breathe a tentative sigh of relief. Of course things could still go wrong! Even after she’s born, there are so many ways I could accidentally squash, smother or maim her. I’m going to try not to.
So it kind of annoys me when people do these elaborate “gender” reveals without pausing to mention that the rest of the baby’s anatomy is developing normally. Even more beautiful than the sex: the spine, the brain, and those four perfectly formed chambers of that fiercely pounding heart.
But I won’t lie: I was thrilled to learn we are having another little girl. Who almost certainly will not come out of me weighing nine pounds.