“Let’s see if he cooperates and gives us a good view,” the nurse said while squirting a generous amount of jelly onto the swollen belly. It was time for our six-month checkup, which meant it was now “safe” to use the 3-D sonogram technology. Well, safe according to my gynecologist; the pregnancy-advice websites I checked daily, BabyCenter and the Bump, maintained that this could hurt the baby. It could expose him to unnecessary ultrasound waves, apparently. I was willing to take my chances, though — I needed to get more than a heartbeat. More than an amorphous blob. I needed a way to transmute my anticipation and prep into something tangible.
So I’d boarded the Virgin Atlantic plane from Los Angeles to Dallas, climbed into my white Toyota Corolla rental, and navigated the Texas freeways with MapQuest in one hand and the steering wheel in another.
Two hours later, I anxiously leafed through a copy of People in the waiting room until our names were called. The examination room was cramped. I pressed myself against the wall as the nurse wheeled in the giant ultrasound cart. I instinctively apologized for being in the way. “Nothin’ to apologize for, sweetie,” she responded in her sweet Texas twang. She cut the lights, and the screen in front of us emitted a whoosh-whoosh sound, like a white-noise machine on steroids, as the wand landed atop the stomach. The nurse apologized as she pressed harder, trying to get a better view.
