Amateur Ultrasound

On a Sunday afternoon in March, we* (*this is the collective we, meaning not just Scott and myself, rather the F A M I L Y - MIL, FIL, BIL, SIL - as a whole) discussed the logistics of the next day's big show.

"So, if it's a boy, we'll go to Five Guys... and if it is a girl, we'll go to... hmm... Q'doba." Burgers for a boy or chips and salsa for a girl? I can't say no to either, so I was good to go. This mode of information via surprise also ensured that no one had to make dinner on Monday, so we* were all for it.

Both Scott and I planned our work days to leave early and make it to the imaging center for their latest appointment. I'm pretty sure I drank 438290 ounces of water just to make sure my body was ready for picture day (oh, the vanity of wanting to constantly over achieve).

And then we waited.

And we waited some more.

For the love, this is getting a little anti-climatic already.

We finally met sweet Bonnie, our ultrasound technician, and I attempted to lie down (hey, lady - I've drank the weight of a baby elephant today and used the bathroom once this morning) and she told me to use the restroom and let out a little. "Count to two and stop," she said.

COUNT TO TWO?!

I take her offer of little relief and miraculously stopped the waterfall after two counts. This may be TMI, but it is my blog, so whatever. Let's just say that I'm also over achieving on my Kegel exercises.

I got back down on the table and what does she first point out? Nope, not a baby, but the giant black blob of my bladder. Holy guacamole, that thing was taking up any millimeter of free space. I think it was the size of Rhode Island. She took the proper measurements and then told me I was free to go relieve myself fully and come back for the second act. Woohoo!

So I get all goo-ed back up again and we start. Bonnie likes her clients (I say clients and not patients, you'll see why) to feel relaxed and comfy - dimmed lights, a soft playlist, a pink flamingo theme, electric candles. I kid you not, I felt like I should have gotten a massage. However, the room did not lend to your typical Hollywood set-up of husband and wife holding hands, watching the undecipherable screen. Scott sat on the other side of Bonnie and I craned my neck sideways to see the images. It was either that or my feet for a view. Oh well.

She shows us the feet, the spine, takes measurements, and comments on how busy the fetus is - it was cramped up all day to make way for my super-sized bladder and was ready to stretch out. I get it. I'd do somersaults, too, if I was stuffed in an amniotic-fluid box for hours.

After busting out some sweet break dancing moves and hearing the heart beat, the kid also decided to wave to us - a wave that looked like a one-fingered salute, that is (yep, that's ours, no doubt about it). Finally, it settled into child's pose (that's my little yogini!):

Unfortunately, the umbilical cord went right down the middle of the body, blocking ANY view of the gender determining factor. At first the little one moved too much for a view (and not just for us to know the gender - we also couldn't get a decent profile shot with all the movement and hand-waving near the face) and now it wouldn't budge after its dance party.

Awesome.

And totally my spiteful (independent?) child. Of course. Let the payback begin, mom and dad.

Sensing the verge of a huge emotional let down (me, broken hearted by disappointment that my expectations were not met?), Bonnie said she would keep our study open until tomorrow afternoon and that we could just pop in at the same time and we try again.

Gotta love Bonnie.

So we go back again, sans full bladder (whew!) the next day. We get all ready to go for the much anticipated to-be-continued and guess what our yoga master zenned out to that Tuesday? The butterfly:

See where the heels are? Well, you guessed it again - strike two.

Ugh.

Bonnie came to the rescue again, and told me to just give her a call directly to her "office" and pop in when we both had a break. I found a good time to stop by two weeks later (Scott gave up at this point and I don't blame him), and Bonnie's sure she found a winning shot. I had her seal it up in an envelope and took it home on my way to an evening work function.

By this time, no one really knew when we would find out (if ever). It wasn't on anyone's radar anymore, and I was to the point where being surprised was much more appealing than defeat.

On my way back from the work thing, Scott and I decided the best thing to do was pick up some take out for the collective we* (plans were already in place for us to eat over there that night, anyway).

I arrived at the compound (my in-laws home), with everyone hustling and bustling around: on the phone, on the computer, in the kitchen, in their room, studying, doing homework, etc. I placed the take out on the table and we all sat down (finally!) to pray. FIL asks me to say it.

Not one to be shy, mince words, or be patient, I found a way to thank my Heavenly Father for a successful ultrasound that day during the dinner prayer. Scott kicked me under the table and I could feel my MIL's mouth drop a bit. After quickly wrapping up the prayer, emotions ensued after saying "amen."

"I had no idea it was today!" "I can't believe you did that in a prayer." "Ok, I can't remember, what does this food mean again? I'm so lost!"



And so I sat with a foolish grin on my face and dug into some nachos.