“That’s your penis, Daniel,” I said, drily, as Dr. Rawlings collapsed in giggles again.
“OK, settle down, now, Bridget. Settle down,” she said.
“Me settle down?”
“Shh! Let’s listen to the heartbeat.”
She turned up the machine and a giant thumping boomed out. Daniel looked genuinely freaked out.
“Is everything all right in there?” he said. “It sounds like a French high-speed train.”
“Tip-top shape. Right! Let’s look at the screen. Oh, there’s the little hand! Look! And, oh! There’s the penis!”
I sat bolt upright.
“Penis? She’s got a penis? My little girl has got a penis?”
Somehow I’d been absolutely convinced that the baby was a girl. You know how a mother just knows?
“Yes, you see it there? Pretty big.”
“Like father like son,” purred Daniel.
“I don’t want a great big penis inside me!”
“First time I’ve ever heard that from you, Jones. Oh, look, look he’s rubbing his nose with his little hands.”
“Oh he’s trying to wave,” I said. “Hello, sweetheart. It’s Mummy, it
’s your mummy, hello!” I was completely overcome. It was the best thing I’d ever seen in my life ever, apart from the last scan, which was also the best thing I’d ever seen in my life ever.
I looked at Daniel to see that he too was choked with emotion. He looked as if he was about to cry.
“Jones,” he said, fumbling for my hand. “It’s our little boy.”
—
We departed from the scan in Daniel’s newly valeted Mercedes, the pale grey interior still smelling faintly of sick. Daniel was driving incredibly slowly, so much so that cars were honking and swerving past us.
“I think you could go a tiny bit faster,” I ventured, immediately feeling like I had catapulted from a person from The Jerry Springer Show to the sort of Smug Married who passive-aggressively backseat drives with her husband.
Daniel put his foot on the accelerator, hit a speed bump, and braked.
“Oh Christ! Oh Christ! Has he fallen out? Is he all right? Jesus, Jones! Move the seat belt. Move the seat belt off him now or it’ll squash his head.”
“Oh no! Will it?” I cried, taking off the seat belt. “Have we squashed him? But how are we going to drive him home if I can’t wear the seat belt?”
We both looked at each other, panicked, like seven-year-olds.
—
Somehow we made it back to the flat, me holding the seat belt away from my bump, Daniel growing increasingly quiet.
I took the seat belt off as gently and carefully as I could as we pulled up, to ensure it didn’t ping back and squash the baby.
“You go on, up,” said Daniel. “I’ll park the car. Make sure your phone’s on in case anything else happens.”
—