Pregnancy Diaries 7: Imagine. Imagine. Imagine.

While I was already safely back home, Hard-working Husband (kinda Hard-working..o.k. I tried to be nice to Worse Half, but it doesn't come easy after all these years :-)) came back just in time during the final month of the pregnancy. Just in time, in case the baby decided to arrive early. He had missed all the earlier sonographies and we went together for the final one.

There are all these cool new machines, 3-D, 4-D and what not where you can see the almost finished product (and probably add 2 weeks life to the current image and tell you exactly how the baby would look at birth!)

Naturally, my Anglophile, by-the-book-gynaecologist wasn’t interested in all this posh-tosh. Neither was my mother for that matter, who said, “You will be seeing the baby in two weeks. And then you will have to keep seeing it,” she concluded darkly “for the rest of your life. Whether you want to, or not.”

My gynaecologist believed in the Power of One and only One sonographer who could do the job perfectly. Only with her was he in perfect synch and only in her readings and images did he have faith.

Except that she worked in this not-so-great hospital with a not-so-great machine. Although I am sure both were perfectly fine from the medical point of view, the problem was you could see little, apart from large blobs and patches. It was largely left to imagination, which the doctor herself admitted.

“Look , here, just here is the spine,” she said.

Really, I thought, peering at an oval shaped blob. Gosh, how can the spine be oval?

Worse Half in the meantime was trying to earnestly figure out whether the blob had that-organ-that-defined-manhood-or-not and told me authoritatively later that the blob definitely had it. I had almost resigned myself to having a son called Sachin...

Hah!

“You have to imagine it a bit,” she said finally, looking at our blank faces.

But even among the blobs, the patches and the supposed-organ-that-defined-manhood, there were two things that even this old-fashioned and out-dated machine could not hide.

An extremely chubby cheek and a head full of little strands of hair.

Awwww. This was cute.

No. It was more that cute. It was very very cute.

I admit it. I almost shed a tear.

No, stupid. Not because I got sentimental or anything like that. Just plain relief that the blob, (with or without that-organ-that-defined-manhood) had not inherited his/her mother’s scanty hair gene. At least the fund I had started for my hair transplant was mine alone...