I'm sitting here, on Bingley's 28th birthday, stuffed full of pavlova with a stupid smile on my face watching the most beatufiul 33 minutes of footage in black and white and then glorious 3D of our adorable offspring.
The images are pristine, the views remarkable. The profile of a little face that in a few short months I will be nuzzling or gazing at as it suckles from me. Long thin arms and legs waving, tiny fists clenching and unclenching, miniscule lips sucking fingers. Big round smooth belly with the thick lumpy cord protruding, big rounded head nodding above.
I was really nervous for today's scan. None of this has seemed real. It's felt like I've been pretending to be pregnant for the last 10 weeks. I was fully prepared to see no baby, to see no heartbeat. Because not being pregnant seemed much more likely than being so, because I hadn't connected yet.
But with the first swoop of the probe we found him (Bingley is convinced it is a boy and so until I find otherwise I will refer to "him"), sitting up on my cervix, arms curled up near his face and it was all I could do not to cry. I was meeting my baby.
Not a blob, or a cluster of cells, or a nonentity, but our baby. A perfect miniature of the child that we will bring home in 6 months time.
This creation thing, no matter how much it ruins our best laid plans, is amazing stuff. Humbling.