August 12th
Don’t know if I am.
Ainsley
I’m a little nervous as I step into the doctor’s office today.
It’s the start of my second trimester and time for an ultrasound.
As the technician preps my abdomen with a cool jelly so we can see the baby on the screen, I realize it’s kind of fitting since its daddy will also be making an appearance on a screen.
His practice is being filmed as a stop on their conference TV tour today, and they specifically requested to speak with him.
And while Damon may not be reading what the sports journalists have to say about the team, Sammy and I have been following along obsessively. I’ve even been printing out articles to save.
While there has been some movement on the depth charts, the final ones won’t be released until just before the start of the season—which is a little over two weeks away. Right now, they show Damon in the fifth spot. And I know he wouldn’t be happy with that.
I look up at the ceiling, focusing on the ceiling tiles and the soft hum of the machine.
In a few moments, I’m going to see the proof of our love.
I always try to think positive thoughts, but I’m suddenly overwhelmed with a million what-ifs.
What if it’s not real? What if there isn’t a baby? What if something’s wrong?
The room smells faintly like antiseptic and lavender hand soap, and my heart is racing out of my chest.
The tech smiles at me and says, “Ready?”
My first thought is, Am I?
I nod even though I don’t know if I am.
The wand glides over my abdomen, the screen flickers, and then … there.
A tiny flicker of light.
“That’s your baby,” the tech says softly.
My baby.
I kind of expected to see just a little blob. When the chart said the baby was the size of a peach, I thought it would look like that, with maybe a heartbeat.
“Okay, so here, you can see there is a visible gestational sac,” the tech says. “As well as the heartbeat.”
She points out the baby’s head. Talks about the brain forming, the heart. I don’t know what I expected, but I can see the spine, arms, hands, legs, and feet. And I’m overwhelmed. In awe.
Tears slip down my cheeks before I can stop them. I feel everything all at once—wonder and fear, joy and panic. I want to laugh. I want to sob. I want to bottle this exact moment and keep it forever.
I reach out toward the screen, like maybe I can touch it, hold it.
Protect it.
For the first time, this isn’t just lines on a test. This is real.