I’ve never liked knowing the end of things before I’m meant to. I’m not one to read ahead or snoop for presents or eat dessert first or answer people honestly when they ask me to just tell them if Harry dies – they’ll never read it, they swear. To me, book snob and lover of structure, an ending taken out of order is also taken out of context, and therefore seems somehow slighted when not prefaced by the anticipation and knowledge of everything that rightfully comes before.
All of which brings me to my point: even though we were tempted, we did not find out the gender of the baby yesterday morning at our ultrasound. It’s not our time to know quite yet.
The ultrasound itself was wonderful: when we had our last one, at ten weeks, it had been too early for me to feel the baby move, so it literally took my breath away to see the little creature flip-flop on the screen, waving its tiny fists at us, but by now I’ve been feeling the baby kick for at least six weeks, which made yesterday’s appointment feel less like an introduction and more like a visit with someone I’ve already met (but still don’t know that well). The baby’s mannerisms were more apparent, little indicators of the personality forming along with those lungs and ear drums.
Everything was right where it ought to be. The baby is tall, and a week-and-a-half ahead of schedule, length and weight-wise, which explains why I also, in belly-size, am growing a bit ahead of schedule. They haven’t changed our due date, but apparently everybody’s growing just fine.
If I had the functioning technology to do so, I would post the pictures for you – but I don’t, so instead imagine a ghostly, black and white profile of our baby’s face, one hand lifted as though to rub its eyes, the mouth closed. There you have it.