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At the end of February, I feel like a balloon. Holy insists that I’m perfectly proportioned for how far along I am, but I’m not used to weighing this much. I’m also not used to my body feeling foreign to me. Sometimes I run into walls that I swear weren’t there before. The doctor says I’m not used to my new size yet, but I think the walls are moving to keep me on my toes.
But as we rapidly approach the halfway mark, we’re permitted to see an ultrasound technician to find out the gender and do measurements. Holy is so excited that he checks out every baby naming book from the library. “We’ve got to be prepared,” he told me as he swiped his library card. I’ve been inundated with ideas ever since; not all of them are good.
“Daniel if it’s a boy, Holly if it’s a girl,” he decides at first. “Or should her name be more similar to Howard?” He steers the truck absentmindedly down the sides streets leading to the Women’s Health Group for our anatomy scan. “Or maybe we go a little crazy and name our boy Jett or James. You know, something cool.”
I snort in derision. “James is cool?” The last James I met was in junior high. I had a crush on him for months until my friend said something to him about it. He nudged me in math class the next day and said it was cool that I liked him, but he couldn’t be seen dating a girl with no tits. I swore off boys named James after that.
Holy shrugs his shoulders, unaware of my run-in with boys named James in my prepubescent years. “I mean, James Dean was cool.”
Much cooler than a twelve-year-old boy that made fun of me because I hadn’t developed yet. “How about no,” I decide. “But I guess Jett can stay on the list.” I concede in spirit. In truth, we are not naming our little boy Jett.
“1 out of 2,” Holy grins, “that’s a good start. Alright. How do you feel about Bradley or Sampson?”
I choke on the spit in my mouth and have to cover it with a cough. “Those are certainly names,” I manage to get out.
Thank God we turn into the medical complex for the Women’s Health Group. I don’t know if I can stomach any more name ideas right now. I was never the girl that sat around thinking about what I would name my future kids. I’m not married to any family naming traditions, either.
“This isn’t over.” The way Holy says it sounds like a playful threat. I pray that inspiration strikes when we find out the gender, and we never have to have this conversation again. Being from two different generations means we have very different ideas of a good name for our child.
As usual, we check-in, and the receptionist tells us to have a seat. We wait the obligatory seven minutes until my ultrasound appointment is set to begin before a nurse calls my name and leads us back to a room. She provides me with a blanket for the lower half of my body and announces that the ultrasound technician will be in shortly.
Shortly turns out not to be soon at all. I’m not sure what the standard unit of measurement is for shortly, but after drinking thirty-two ounces of water to prepare for this appointment, my bladder is aching after the first fifteen-minute wait, and Holy apologizes when he has to excuse himself. “I know you can’t pee,” he winces, “but I’ll have a sympathy pee for you.” He drank the same amount of water so we could do this together, but he doesn’t have to keep holding it.
If I had something to throw at him, I would. I know he’s just trying to lighten the mood, but I feel so full that I mightactuallyexplode. Thankfully, the technician knocks on the door and pokes his head in a few seconds after Holy departs. “Miss Fulton?” I nod, and he slips inside. “I’m Don. I’ll be performing your ultrasound today.”
Don, short for Donald, as his name tag suggests. He’s a handsome young man, entirely too young to be breaking out medical jargon and firing up an ultrasound machine. Thank God he just has to spread some goo on my stomach and take measurements. If I had to spread my legs for him instead, I don’t know if I could handle it. There should be a law that only women can be OBGYNs because the last thing I want is an attractive young man to be staring at my intimate parts when I’m pregnant and can’t trim up down there.
“Wow, look at this little tike,” Don announces with a smile as a black and white image appears on the screen. I follow the technician’s gaze and see my baby. It’s bigger than the blip I remember from a few weeks ago. In fact, I think I can make out a head and shoulders. “Sure seems butted up against your stomach, though. These are the shoulders,” he confirms as if reading my mind.
A couple more minutes pass, and Don takes measurements. His fingers fly across the keyboard as he snaps pictures and records the length of my baby’s spine and the circumference of its head. I keep a watchful eye on the door, waiting for Holy’s return.
“Your baby is a cutie.” Don makes eye contact and smiles flirtatiously. “He probably gets that from his mama.”
I blush and look away. In another life, if I were a single mom, I’d be flattered by his flirty banter. But there’s a tattooed teacher somewhere outside this room that has my entire heart in his hands. “Thank you. You’re too kind,” I fend him off.
Holy promptly enters the room with a thunderous clap of his hands. “Great! You’re here!” He announces when he sees the tech running the ultrasound wand across my belly. “What did I miss?”
Don looks from me to Holy. I can’t say what exactly goes through his head, but he ultimately makes the wrong call about our relationship. “Hey, Grandpa,” he smiles, “I was just telling your daughter that the baby looks happy and healthy and is probably getting its looks from its mama.” Don brazenly winks, and I know without another word being said that he fucked up.
Holy stops in his tracks and stares at the ultrasound technician like he’s trying to decide if he should punch him. “Grandpa,” he repeats blandly.
The smile on the tech’s face falters, the corners of his lips no longer tilting up. “Er, pop-pop?” He suggests playfully. “I know grandparent names are special. Sorry if I got yours wrong.” He looks to me as if I might save him, but I’m busy praying that Holy doesn’t get arrested for choking the ultrasound technician.
“Unless you want me to permanently affix that wand to your prostrate, you better cut the cute shit and focus on my baby’s measurements. Do you hear me?” Holy balls his hands into fists at his sides. “And don’t flirt with my girlfriend again.”
Poor Don. All the blood drains from his face, and I can feel his hand shaking the wand pressed to my stomach. He turns to stare at the screen and anxiously calls out the measurements as he goes on. “Do you, uh, want to know, or keep a surprise, the gender?” Don stutters.
Holy holds my hand and nods. We discussed this when we booked the appointment. Some people like to be surprised, but not us. We want to know if we’re buying pink or blue.
Don avoids making eye contact with me and looks to Holy. “You’re having a boy!” He says with nervous enthusiasm. One, two, three seconds pass without a word from either of us. Don pulls the wand from my belly and grabs a towel from the stack beside his computer. He mumbles something about wanting to leave the happy couple to mull over the news before getting up and stumbling out of the room.
The second the door closes, I glare at Holy. “Was that necessary?”
“He thought I was your dad.” His jaw ticks. “He didn’t even bother to ask. Just assumed.”
I sigh because I know that this is going to happen for the rest of our lives. I’m getting used to it. When I’m Holy’s age, people will tell me that he looks good for sixty-two. “I don’t care what he assumed, Holy. We know what we are to one another.”
“You’re eighteen and gorgeous,” he mumbles. Holy’s hand lets mine slip as he steps away from my bedside to grab some towels. “I couldn’t help myself. Men are going to want you every day for the rest of your life.”
