Forgive me for not writing about this yesterday. I was swamped with homework and I fried my brain. Writing isn't very fun when your brain is smoking.
So Ashton picked me up at 11:45 to head to the OB clinic. Usually that place is packed with women with bulging bellies, but yesterday we hit a good time. We were invited to descend into the basement where the ultrasound tech was waiting for us. She had Ashton climb up on the reclined bed and I sat down next to her. Then my mind was polluted with some images from the movie Juno, as I thought, "This is just how they were sitting. . . except their tech was a jerk."
The tech squirted a bunch of hair gel on Ashton's belly and turned off the lights. The Christmas morning anticipation began to build up as we awaited the first images of our unborn. The tech placed the knob on Ashton's abdomen, and some fuzzy amorphous images popped up on the screen. She rubbed it around and I tried to orient myself. Just weird blurs and inkspots. Oh, oh a hand! A beautifully crafted miniature hand, with jointed fingers and a palm! The hand was surprisingly distinct, and then the baby pulled it back into the abyss of Ashton's uterus.
The novelty wore off after about five minutes. I sat impatiently, watching the tech take measurements and label the placenta, yada yada yada. I really just wanted to know the gender, and this tech was acting like she had all day. Nervous anticipation began building again, and the wait was torturous. Finally the tech paused the frame and asked, "Are we wanting to know what it is?" Well we're assuming it's a baby. Yes! Tell us what it is already! That's really what we're paying you for! I mean, I was glad that it had all its limbs and seemed to be a normal size, but I really just wanted the coin toss to be over. The tech pointed at the frame and said, "Now that's a leg there, that it's got up, so it's blocking our view . . . " and then she pointed down and to the left, "And that's a little boy part."
A little boy part! A phallus. a water pistol, a Y chromosome magnified a million times! The implications are endless. My progeny will carry the Jenkins name! He will have the birthright! The rest of our children will have an older brother, an example, a whipping boy. He'll be a future priesthood holder, a missionary, and one day a father like me. I like this kid already.
It should be noted that we were kind of hoping for a girl, just because we already had a name picked out. The battle for boy names has yet to be resolved. We'll probably have to put it to a vote to avoid a bloody conflict.
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