This morning, while my wife held my hand in the ultrasound room, her on the table and me in the chair, I was preoccupied about finding out whether our baby was male or female. I had gotten so single-minded about it that I began to think it was the only reason we were there.
But as our technician searched around my wife’s belly with the ultrasound wand and found each angle to capture the good stuff—head size and shape, spine development, arm and leg length—and as each time she said it looked good and healthy, I became very aware how significant all this was. I said a prayer when she counted five fingers and five toes—actually, when she counted toes at all. I said a prayer when she said our baby was average. In our technician’s world, average is very good.
All of the amusing stories about fatherhood and all of the real or perceived tall tasks that lie ahead of me as a parent faded far off into the distance. None of it mattered today.
My boy appears to be healthy. For that I thank God.