Three teens and a baby: Time for the dreaded 20-week scan

We are having our 20-week scan. The BIG one. The half-way mark (though my requests for half-time oranges fall on deaf ears).

As anyone who has ever had a baby knows, the 20-week scan is not only hugely significant in terms of marking the start of the second, long, heavy half of a pregnancy, it’s also one of the most nerve-wracking experiences any new parent can go through. 

Basically, it’s a total, full-body, no-organ-left-unturned baby MOT. 

From the big stuff, like the number of fingers and toes, to the tiniest details of their brain structure and organ formation, this ultra-sound, ultra-terrifying examination is the point where - if bad news exists - it is going to be seen. 

I feel like I’ve run the gauntlet of human luck in my other pregnancies. To have one healthy child was incredibly fortunate. To have two, almost fluke. By the time I was expecting the third time, I was so worried about playing another hand in the Game of Creation that I hardly dared look at any of the scans until he was born – beautiful and healthy, like his older sisters. 

Now, 20 years on, and with the risk of all kinds of age-related problems, genetic abnormalities and other health issues considerably higher than they were before, I’m so frightened of what this scan might reveal, I’m shaking before I even get to the reception desk. 

The whole thing only takes about 20 minutes, but I’ve sweated less during a half marathon than I did lying on that bed, watching the grey and black images of my baby.

With every tick in the box, another sigh of relief. 

Legs, check. Arms, check. Spine, all good. Two eyes, both in the head, great work. Her heart, fine. My heart? Pounding. 

On and on it goes, in total silence, bar the sonographer’s occasional tapping at the keyboard to record various measurements and, we both hope, good bits of baby-construction news. 

As I lie there, counting each nervous breath, I realise just how much more is known about every stage of pregnancy than it was two decades ago. How much clearer the ultrasound is. How much more detail they can go into. How many more available tests and checks there are. 

And now, in my 40s, how many of these tests and checks put me firmly in the ‘high risk’ category, what with my eggs being so darned old and weathered.

Not only this, but I can read about every single aspect of it myself, online. I can lose myself for days, swimming through thousands of conversations in parenting forums. I can Google scientific papers that I can barely understand. I can watch videos of foetuses at every stage of gestation, see countless Instagram photos of women documenting their own pregnancies, and compare my scans, bump, and development milestones against theirs.  

And I wonder: is it really better to know all this?

Or was it easier, less frightening, and more mentally healthy, to just glide through pregnancy knowing little more than how many weeks cooked it was, and roughly when it would be a good idea to start thinking about buying the first baby hats. 

We get to the end of the scan, and the sonographer switches on the main light. 

“All seems absolutely fine. Perfect, in fact. She’s doing brilliantly.”

I breathe deeply for the first time since I got in the room, and immediately want to hug our half-time baby, and high-five her for managing to get all her little DNA bits in the right order, and grow her parts in the correct places. We have a winner!

We are approaching the home straight. A lot can still go wrong from here, of course, but for now, in this dark room, I feel at least a little bit safer in the knowledge that this 42-year-old - who has put her body through so much - seems to be safely running the gauntlet of pregnancy one more time. 

I think our half-time oranges deserve a little bit of champagne with them, too. 

Next week: Why I don't want an Instagram baby