Friends in High Places.

There are millions of words my family would use to describe me. Patient is not on the tippy-top of that list. I know this is surprising, seeing as I am a teacher of 15 three year olds for eight hours each day, but it's true. Let's just say I have selective patience. If I see a trailer for a movie I might possibly be interested in, I go online and look up the spoilers. If I am really into a great book and can't wait to see the fates of the characters, I simply flip to the last chapter. In fact, I read the epilogue of the last Harry Potter book months before I cracked open the first novel in the series. I can also, quite patiently, tie shoes, change a wet child out of clothes, listen to "But why? But why? But why? But why? But why?" all while singing the abc's and wiping snotty noses. Yet I am often referred to by the people who know me best as impatient. Children, unending patience. Anything else, ehhh, maybe not so much.

To really comprehend the true level of impatience I am describing, I am going to have to confess something that I don't particularly broadcast. A little tidbit of my life that I never planned on revealing. A special little secret that few people know: I found out the sex of my unborn child by getting a sonogram at the vet.

You read it correctly. Your average gender-announcing exciting obstetrician recommended ultrasound happens around the 20th week of gestation. The midway point, halfway to due date. I found out I was pregnant in the very beginning of May. My 20th week would be sometime in mid to late-ish August. F o r e v e r away.

Now I am not saying what I did was right, I am just saying this is what happened. It was early summer. I was just starting to show and even though I felt flu-ish most of the time, the warm weather perked me up a bit and the sun had finally turned my face from seasick green to rosy pink. I had recently announced to my students and their parents that I was expecting and each day was getting congratulatory hugs from moms and high fives from kids. One of the mothers in my class is a veterinarian. She always had been kind to me and truly thrilled to hear I was carrying a little bundle of joy. When she asked if I was going to find out the sex, I told her that my husband wanted to wait to find out, but that I was dying to know. When I told her that my appointment wasn't until August (giving me plenty of time to convince my husband to change his mind), she informed me that gender can be determined as early as 14 weeks. She then asked me how far along I was. And did I know that she had ultrasound equipment in her office. She ended our conversation by saying that if I ever wanted to get an ultrasound, just call her office and she'd be happy to do one for me.

This conversation took place at 9:00 am

I called her office that same day at noon.

The whole drive to the vets office I replayed the conversation in my head. She had performed weekly ultrasounds on herself for both of her pregnancies, and her kids seemed just fine. She is a licensed doctor. What's wrong with that? Ok, so she probably spent the morning performing ultrasounds on Asian potbellied pigs, but so what, August felt like years away, and I simply couldn't wait.

When I arrived to the veterinary office, a nurse (I guess she was a nurse, do vets have nurses?) took me back to the operating room where my vet (I suppose I was her patient now) was removing kidney stones from a cat. Here I was, pregnant, on my lunch break, in the O.R. of a vets office, sitting on a stainless steel operating table waiting for the ultrasound to tell me the gender of my child. Not once did it cross my mind that this was not normal. I could think was "Stitch that old cat up quicker, I need to know if we're blue or pink."

When the cat was stoneless and properly sutured, I followed the vet out of the operating room and into an exam room where I hopped up on the table. Seeing as the examining table is for animals and not humans, it wasn't easy for me to lie down properly. Not to worry, the vet brought in bags of dog food (I swear this is true) for me to use as a pillow, and she wheeled over the ultrasound equipment. "Don't worry", she assured me, "the equipment is sterile." "Thanks" I replied from my pile of dog food bags.

When she pressed the equipment into my belly and I looked at the screen, I saw my child. I had gotten an ultrasound at 8 weeks, but all I really could see that time was a tiny kidney bean with a heartbeat. This was a little teeny tiny person. And this person was active. Little baby arms and legs were moving all over the place. Fluttering back and forth, turning it's head as if to face the camera, giving me a thumbs up. I didn't feel sick anymore, I didn't feel tired. I felt connected. I felt excited. I felt so much love.

"Okay, let's see now if we can get the money shot." I had forgotten I was there to find out the sex of this little miracle. She jiggled my stomach a bit, and immediately the baby slid butt-first to the camera, legs spread wide. "Can you tell what you have there?" she asked me. I looked closely. Equipment or no equipment, pink or blue...

Equipment. I was having a boy.

There, on a doggy examining table in an veterinary office, I met my son. It was perfect. It still makes me go all misty.

Being pregnant doesn't make you rational, it doesn't make you know how to do everything right, and it doesn't make you know how to take care of yourself or anyone else. If you are wondering if you are ready to have a child, maybe it would be a better idea to get a nice pet. And if you do, I can recommend a fantastic vet.