This past Monday we went for the second official, fourth actual, sonogram. This is ‘gender’ one, where we get to find out which colour of booties to buy.
I arrived a touch earlier than my wife, and had to push my way past a few agitated security guards and a middle aged couple in order to get into the main office. For some reason they kept pointing at the ground and yelling. Bunch of tourists.
Sarah’s decided that our Doctor’s habit of maintaining a 60 minutes lag is best addressed with a corresponding half hour check-in delay. Had I known this in advance, I think I would have been appropriately delayed as well; instead I got to enjoy the peace and quiet of the waiting room until Sarah called around 3:20 to tell me she couldn’t come in. The door and, soon after, the street, had been barred from access by the Police.
I wanted to see this for myself, so I poked my head out the front door and found myself looking right at a couple of stressed out officers standing where the security guards had been a few minutes earlier. They didn’t have a lot of patience for anyone attempting to come into, or out of, the door. A portly Parisian policeman ushered me back to where I’d come from and made some reference about an issue of paramount security. I asked if I could leave, and he shook his head, and then let everyone else in the building know that the office would be closed indefinitely, and we were not permitted to exit or enter the building for an indeterminate amount of time. Then he said a bunch of stuff in rapid French and left through the front door.
“Qu’est-ce qui se passe?” I asked the receptionist.
“Je ne sais pas.Un problème de sécurité tres important. Une bombe peut-être…” She replied calmly.
“Peut-être.” She shrugged – of course she would shrug – and got back to work.
OK. Great. I’m stuck in a building, there is potentially a bomb buried underneath the front door and my pregnant wife is trying to get in. Super.
Meanwhile, in the outside world, Sarah had been directed into the next available door on the street, which the policeman had told her was the alternate entrance to the Doctor’s office. She gave me another call and asked what was up. I told her: “It seems there is a bomb in front of the door. There might be a back door on the other side of the building.”
“A bomb?! Should we be concerned?”
“I dunno. I asked the lady. She shrugged.” I really hate it when they shrug. “Where are you?”
“I think the Portuguese embassy. They can’t help me. I’m going to see if there’s another door.”
Anyhow, long story short, Sarah made it into the building around 3:50, just in time for our 3:00 appointment. The appointment was slightly longer than usual, on account of the Doctor leaving us every few minutes to watch the bomb squad, who were working just 2 meters outside of his window, but it was eventful.
After measuring the head, the legs, the arms, the legs again, and so on, he broke the news that ‘C’est un garcon.’ I don’t know how he could tell, the only sure fire sign that I’m aware of having never been visible on the screen. But he was very confident.
So, if you find yourself looking for booties or bonnets, better stick with blue. It’s going to be a boy.
For our next trick: coming up with a list of names!