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Weeks 5 to 6
I think It’s a Boy
The first sonogram is the first hurdle. We saw the heartbeat, that little fleck of the future pumping rhythmically like magic. Presto, a snapshot, and off we went. Jack said he’d save our photo in a new envelope alongside the one that stores Henry’s prebirth pictures...a new one with no name.
Meanwhile, Henry asks the same question every night: “Mama, are you too old to born me a baby?”
“No,” I reassure him.
“So then do it—hurry up.”
“It takes a while, sweetie.” I stroke his face.
“Come on, I want a baby brother so is there one growing in your tummy?
“Not sure,” I lie gently, convinced my son reads minds.
It’s a boy. Not that anyone knows yet, but it is. My husband’s family has produced one natural-born girl in 90 years, so the odds of having a daughter are virtually zero. That’s something I cared deeply about the first time around, so much so that I fell into a vague depression upon hearing the news at 18 weeks that I wasn’t carrying a girl, but now I simply don’t care. I want him to be free from chromosomal disorders, mental retardation, and all the ailments that can plague children after they’ve been born. Sign me up for every prenatal test on the market—I’ll endure all of them, and Jack and I agree that if anything menacing presents itself, we will surely terminate.
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Last time around I had amnio. Now they’re urging me to have CVS instead. That way we know the results much earlier—by 13 weeks—which is not only a safer time to abort a pregnancy if need be but also, according to my OB, “more private.” True, but I would have no qualms telling everyone that I’m pregnant now, and later made the ethical decision to abort rather than bring a tormented child into the world. I suppose not everyone shares my point of view, so except for this journal, we will continue to keep things private.
Jack tells me he’d rather not discuss my pregnancy so much, that it’s better for him not to focus on it or else he’ll get overwhelmed. How nice for him to have that option, while I, on the other hand, just realized I accidentally ate unpasteurized cheddar cheese and have begun to obsess about Listeriosis, or wince when anyone hugs me due to the painful pressure on my breasts, or covet someone else’s sunset Chardonnay as the warm breeze wanes, or try, in vain, to suck my gut into my favorite jeans. Must be nice to think about something other than everything changing in my body. I know I will one day, the day when I transfer my fixation from what might be to what is, the day when I finally “born Henry a baby.”
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ARCHIVE:
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