With 99% Certainty

Last week we had an appointment with my Frauenarzt (Gynecologist in German) for a routine checkup concerning Little Inside Baby, hereafter referred to as L.I.B. All looked well on the doctor’s grainy ultrasound monitor and she asked us—my husband and son were present—if we knew the gender of the baby. I had told her the gender in our appointment four weeks ago. We even had a conversation about how the health of the baby is what’s important, which seems to be the common condolence when I tell people I’m having another boy. No matter. She’s a busy doctor with many patients. She’s likely to forget a conversation that took place a month ago. I told her that the Perinatal Specialist had said we were having a boy. She started to shift her ultrasound wand back and forth on my belly, trying to get a better view of the baby’s undercarriage. “Is it still a boy?” I asked. She said that she just couldn’t get the baby in the right position to check for sure. It was of no consequence, really. I felt I was having a boy. I had committed, happily, to being the mother of boys.

Yesterday, we had our follow-up visit with our Perinatal Specialist. We chose to see a Specialist because of my “advanced maternal age.” Lovely. Lennon came for the visit this time and ran around wildly, playing with the nurse. Unlike my pregnancy with Lennon, I am much more calm this time. When the Specialist told us in November that our baby was healthy and had no signs of genetic defect, I imprinted that information in my heart and let it give me peace. With Lennon, I second-guessed every diagnosis. I think my calm this time also comes from the knowing that whatever child I am blessed with, I am just that: blessed—something I didn’t realize before giving birth to Lennon.

As I reclined on the exam table, five feet in front of me was the Specialist’s enormous flat screen TV where I could see the 3-D ultrasound of L.I.B. captured by his fancy, state of the art equipment. He started to verbally check off all of the baby’s features, with comments like “perfect” and “normal.” He then asked if we knew the gender already.

“Yes, a boy.” I said.

“Who told you that?” he said.

“Your nurse, when we called in December.” I answered.

He then told us unequivocally that we, in fact, had a girl! He was concerned that we had not been told that the gender results from the eleven-week ultrasound were not meant to be 100% accurate. I reassured him that, indeed, the nurse clearly stated that the certainty was only 99%. The Specialist apologized more than was needed, really, and stated that today’s gender results were now upgraded to 100%. We would be having a baby girl. My husband and I were in a state of thrilled shock. I believe I still am.

Afterward, the Specialist looked once more at November’s ultrasound picture, from which L.I.B.’s gender had been given that early determination. He said that in looking again at that eleven-week picture, he would still say it was a boy. Apparently, the little gender determining parts just look so darn similar at that point in the pregnancy and what with how the baby was positioned…that’s why he makes his early determinations at less than 100% certainty. He wanted to make sure we understood, however, that all the other factors he checked at the early ultrasound—the bridge of the baby’s nose, the Nuchal fold, the heart—were absolutely accurate. We had a healthy baby. He didn’t need to say this, but I’m glad he did.

On the way home, I felt a little guilty being so giddy about now having a girl, as if I was betraying the little boy I thought I was going to have. Silly, right? It’s still the same baby. Over the past six weeks, I had reconciled any disappointment in not having a girl and had really fallen in love with the baby boy I thought was growing inside me. What I learning now is how little gender really does matter. Boy or girl, I fell in love with this child’s unique soul.

Post-Script:

Early on in the pregnancy, weeks before we saw the Perinatal Specialist, my husband and I performed the “thread and needle” gender test. The test is about as accurate as any old wives’ tale, but the needle that hung from the pink thread spun around in circles when dangled above my newly pregnant belly. We performed the test several times to confirm the result. I performed it again on myself the following day. Each time, it made gentle circles above my belly.

Circles for a girl, back and forth for a boy.

A Psalm

I wish I could show you,
When you are lonely or in darkness,
The astonishing light of your own being.
-Hafiz

One morning last week, I looked at my baby boy and silently declared that were I to have only one year to live, there is no where I would rather be than here with my family, doing just this, being my husband’s wife and raising my son, savoring every single second, not missing one drop of love and magnificence. My bucket list is very short. Talk can be cheap, but on that morning, I more than just said this, I really felt it deep in my heart, how truly and miraculously beautiful my family is. I bathed in happy and lucky and blessed.

I mostly spend too much time in longing. I think I abuse longing. I long away for ‘more’ or ‘other’ instead of enjoying ‘have’ and ‘mine.’ That morning, though, my longings had nothing on me and all that was left was a ridiculous amount of love. It was holy. I did in fact ‘seize’ that moment, if not the whole day. Not to boast of my wealth, but I know that I am living amongst intense gorgeousness and I am beholden to recognize it, whether I die in a year or in fifty. Incidentally, I later told Nicholas about this and he asked that I not mention anything of it further as I was strictly forbidden to partake in such activities as ‘having only one year to live’ or ‘dying.’

Maybe it’s Lennon having been sick last week, a never-ending lack of sleep, or general Mama hormones that have made me so maudlin lately, but I’m still gushing. My little family is so wonderful that I’m nearly jealous of myself. All I want to do is to stay as healthy as I can so I can be with them for as many years as nature will allow. Sometimes when I’m in bed and I’m watching Nicholas and Lennon sleep, I try to imprint them into my hands, onto my eyes, and commit their scent to memory so when I’m too old to remember anything else, these will remain.

Before Lennon was born, I had a dream about him as a young man in his twenties. He sat next to me and put his arm around my shoulder. He was much taller than I and I leaned into him and rested my head on his chest. Lovely, sweet, magical. God, please let that dream come true.







Information on quote found here.
Photo Credit: Humboldthain Park, Berlin, Amy Cole Farrell, 2011

Statement of Rationale (and a disclaimer)

Every once in a while, I search the inter-webs with the words ‘mother, artist’ to see what they will bring up. I’m looking for blogs written by women who have a life’s work, a calling, and become a mom, in spite of it. I’m hoping to find someone who has written a how-to guide that I can follow. They’ll be able to explain how to fully immerse oneself in one’s art and still be a really good mother. My biggest worry about not having found these women yet is that maybe they don’t exist; that to attempt both is quixotic. Out of this fear began this blog. Here, I reckon I can become what I have been looking for. Maybe through writing about my own journey, I can create a manual for it.

“But, Amy, so far you’ve written about fairly disparate things, leaving open ends, left out parts. Not all ‘mother’ and not all ‘artist’ and sometimes neither.”– Fictional Follower

I’d like to offer some justification for my actions here. Not that you require it. I’d just like to provide it:

First there’s this—I live in Berlin, Germany. By my account, Berlin is an experimental city that continues to find and reinvent itself, over and over. The people who migrate here, in my experience, usually share the same ethos. They come to make bold, incongruous moves, artistic or otherwise, without the fear of dramatic repercussions found in other cities. One can’t do that as easily in places like New York or London where the expectations are as high as the rents. But Berlin is cheap and nonchalant. There is no dream too ridiculous for Berlin and if the dreamer decides to take a detour, Berlin will still be there for them when they return. In fact, Berlin will have even gone so far as to forget there was ever a dream to be had, offering the opportunity to find a new one without anyone the wiser. Folks here truly embrace Berlin’s carefree nature and end up living many lifetimes within its walls, unburdened by consequence. I’ve become accustomed to the ethic here insofar as I know what to expect, but, in truth, it runs contrary to every fiber of my being. That’s not to say what I’ve written is meant to be a criticism of Berlin or its inhabitants. Really good art is created here by really remarkable people. It is just often done in a way in which I have never been able to work: with abandon. You see, I’m serious business, folks. I show up on time and I stay late. My dreams loom heavily and I’m always working towards them. I am earnest and I do not deviate. Failure is not an option (see: The Traumatic Terrible.) As envious as you must be of my austerity, rest assured, it can be a big bore. I want to change. I want to be more like Berlin. I hope it rubs off on me. The format of this blog is a start. I’m just going to write what I am inspired to write, devil may care style, until I have the answers I seek. If I leave ends untied and questions unanswered, please forgive me. I see this as a necessary part of the process.

Then there’s this—One thing I’ve learned from being a mom is that I can’t also be a perfectionist. It’s not compatible with childrearing. Children are messy, literally and figuratively. Their brains and their bodies are not yet organized. The second you have them figured out they change. Also, as I’ve mentioned here, you are often required, by the very heart beating in your chest, to drop everything and just ‘be’ with your child. That means all else stops, including time, until you are done. The worst damage to your meticulousness comes when you realize that none of your schedules or your blog posts or your how-d’ya-dos matter one iota next to those moments, gone too soon. What was once a well calculated plan of attack on your next five years as an artist becomes unpredictable, catch as catch can. Like Berlin. Maybe like this blog. Maybe like what it is I’m looking for.




Photo source found here.