The Ultrasound

First look at our family's newest member.

Even without a car, life went on. Before we knew it, it was time for Baby Number Two's 20-week ultrasound.

That morning my sweet nephew dropped off his car at our apartment. Ryan loaded Lyla's brand new car seat in Devin's Corolla while I chugged a bottle of water I found on the floor of the car. (Why do I always forget to drink beforehand?)

Looking back, I guess I had a few expectations going in. I anticipated an ultrasound similar to Lyla's: a cheerful technician pointing out all the body parts, Ryan holding my hand while we listened to Lyla's tiny heartbeat, the technician producing more than sufficient fanfare at the gender revelation.

The new technician took herself way too seriously for any of that nonsense.

The doctor told us afterward that she was new to the practice, so I'll excuse her tight-lipped manner on the assumption that she just really wanted to follow the rules. And I know technicians aren't supposed to diagnose any potential problems; they're just meant to run the scan.

But I am a habitual question-asker and her silence didn't faze me. I asked about everything we saw, and a couple times I got an answer.

"Is that the baby's heartbeat?"

"Mm-hmm."

"How does it look?"

"Good."

"Any potential problems?"

"I can't diagnose anything."

"Right. But are there, like, four chambers?"

"Yes. There are four chambers."

"So that's good?"

"Usually, but I—"

"Can't diagnose anything. Yeah," I said.

But her silence couldn't squelch my excitement. There's something about that first glance at your child's profile that can't be spoiled. Our sweet baby had a perfect little face, with the same nose and upper lip as Lyla. I watched the baby wiggle and move and felt the awe that is now becoming familiar. It's the amazement that a new person is coming into the world through me. That it's growing and forming inside my body. I already felt bonded to that little person, and seeing its little features—even partially obstructed on a black and white medical scan—touches a part of my heart that only my children have reached.

The technician measured the length of the baby's legs, checked the spine, then muttered: "It's a girl."

Ryan looked up from taking care of Lyla and I snapped my attention from the screen to the technician.

"What?" I asked her.

"Right here. You can see it's a girl."

Her announcement lacked what I considered sufficient pageantry, but no matter. I looked at Ryan, who was grinning. "Another girl!" I said.

"Yay! Another girl!" Ryan squeezed my hand.

The technician continued the scan, which she narrated with very clinical explanations of our sweet girl's anatomy. She, of course, gave no diagnosis—except to say that I might, possibly, have a very serious problem that can result in stillbirth if I don't get a C-section.

The doctor said that wasn't true. Technicians can't diagnose anything, you know.

As I packed for our move over the next few days, I stopped to look at Lyla's old clothes, her pink bouncy seat, her rosebud blanket and her red and pink quilts. I found the tiny bows I used to glue to her head before she had any hair. But instead of sentimentally longing for days gone by, I eagerly awaited what lay ahead.

New baby girl, we couldn't be more excited to meet you.