Smudge

Earlier today we went to the antenatal clinic for both our first meeting with the Midwife, and our first scan. My hopes were pretty simple; that the baby was alive, as healthy as could be expected, that its Mum was going to be OK, and that everything was… ‘normal’*. Thankfully the Midwife assured us all was fine, and that there was nothing to worry about. She then went on to spend an hour making us fill out forms whilst simultaneously draining blood from my wife’s arm, like a particularly efficient vampire. Still, we were happy, so that was OK.

As for the scan, that was also fine; and its much anticipated printout was pretty much as I’d expected it to be, going in. You see, I’ve been presented with dozens of these over the years, by excited parents-to-be, eager for me to acknowledge that the smudge in the photo has Mummy’s nose, or Daddy’s chin or Grandma’s forehead. I can never see it, but I’m not entirely horrible, so I always politely muster an an “oh yeah – there’s the head” or something equally vague. So now it was my turn (our turn) and what did I think when shown the screen by the sonographer? My first reaction was to ask him which way was up, and when he told me I concluded that it looked very much like a smudge. Of course my wife was all pleased, pointing out arms, eyes, and all kinds of other things I’m not even sure the foetus has yet. To me, it’s a smudge. But it is a smudge. And it’s alive. And it’s our little girl… or our little boy. Amazing, and profoundly moving.

Whilst all this was going on, Pope Benedict XVI was pitching up in Glasgow, and the media were all aflutter about the historic significance of the event – the details of which I won’t bother with (but can be found here), apart from to note that my Mum got all Catholic about it and started going on about it being a good omen for us. I really don’t see why; I remember when I was a little kid, going to his predecessor’s last gig in the UK, seeing the Pope mobile at close range and wondering what all the fuss was about an Ice Cream van with no ice cream on a sweltering hot day. It’s not for here, but my feelings on the church aren’t all that accepting (I suppose being the best word for it). However, there was a moment there, when the gel was on my wife’s stomach, before the Sonographer placed his equipment there - in the seconds before the scan – where I found myself praying to God. It goes against my logic, but there you have it. That’s what happened.

* University tutors completely ruin the word ‘normal’. Three years of them pulling you up on it, asking you to “unpack” it and explain it away, leaves you forever self-conscious about using it.

 

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