Three little fishies and a mama fishie too,
Went over sailing on the ocean blue.
“Swim!” said the mama fishie,
“Swim if you can!”
And they swam and they swam
Right over the dam.
No matter how hard I tried, the song kept repeating itself in my mind:
“Swim!” said the mama fishie,
“Swim if you can!”
And they swam and they swam
Right over the dam.
I was sitting by my pregnant daughter’s side, watching the ultrasound screen. I followed the motion of shapeless splotches fading in and out as the technician moved her wand across my daughter’s belly. I tried to recognize the various blobs for what they were, but to no avail. As one blob shrank, another appeared, overlapping, blurry, unrecognizable, then another, and another. Blobs grew and shrank, started swimming into focus, then retreating, blending into the grainy background.
I fought to zero in on the technician’s voice. “Her head is down. So that’s good news.”
Where did she see the head? Up or down, all I could see were shapeless blobs. She was saying something else. I tried to focus on her words. Perhaps she’d clue me into the secret language of the ultrasound. Was that the head? The butt? An arm?
The technician leaned closer to the screen, sweeping the wand back and forth as if she was searching for something. The blobs floated in and out of focus. She let out a breath. “I can’t get a three-D picture. Her face is right up against the placenta.”
Placenta? Where? And where on earth did she the face.
One of the splotches shrank into a small dark amoeba-like shape, and morphed into— my breath caught. What was it? An eye? No… Ooh! A fishie! And another!
Three little fishies and a mama fishie too…
I chastised myself. Pay attention! Another fishie swam by. Three little fishies— stop it! Focus!
The technician seemed to be wrapping up. She wiped off Sarah’s belly, printed out a grainy black and white image, and handed it to Sarah. Sarah handed it to me and sat up, straightening her clothes. I pored over the photo. Thankfully no fishies. An indistinct outline caught my attention. Could that be the baby’s profile? Probably not.
We walked out of the obstetrician’s office, the image in my hand. I pointed, “Is that the baby’s face?”
Sarah nodded. Though skeptical, I respected her opinion. After all, she’d undergone several ultrasounds. When we reached home, I took the flimsy piece of paper out of my purse and peered at it. I traced the white line that supposedly marked the baby’s profile, trying to convince myself. I shrugged. It was lovely of Sarah to invite me to come with her for the ultrasound. I burst into song.
Three little fishies and a mama fishie too,
Went over sailing on the ocean blue.
“Swim!” said the mama fishie
“Swim if you can!”
And they swam and they swam
Right over the dam.