Upon spotting the Bank of America building, I immediately found myself in a quandary. “Where in the hell is the parking garage?” I mumbled aloud under my breath. It seems that the parking garage was behind the building, hidden by the bank’s drive through teller facility. The only visible evidence of the clinic’s parking facility was a large sign with the name of the clinic, conveniently tucked away in the entrance ramp of the parking garage itself. I quickly turned into the garage narrowly avoiding the large van that was coming in the opposite direction. I was still trying to adjust to driving my inlaw’s behemoth sport utility vehicle. It had been almost three weeks since they borrowed our truck to take a refrigerator back to Fort Worth, Texas for my brother-in-law. I longed to drive my sporty little Honda Accord Coupe once again. Maneuvering the tank into the cramped parking spaces proved daunting. She followed me into the parking garage, but continued up the ramp to the floor above where I had finally put the gasoline greedy beast to rest.
I walked to the stairs and met her on the bottom floor, where after a few quick turns and a short elevator ride we entered the clinic together. Desolate, except for a the two staff memebers at the counter I sat down while she signed-in for our appointment. Soon she joined me on the plush blue sofa, obviously made of some industrial grade fabric necessary for the high volume of bottoms that collide with it on a daily basis. The butterflies danced and fluttered nervously in my stomach. “Perhaps I should go to the rest room,” I thought to myself.
After deciding that a trip to the bathroom was not necessary, I decided to read a magazine. The selection of periodicals was heavily geared towards women. Not willing to give up, I managed to find a Car and Driver magazine proudly boasting the new Porsche Carrera GT. The articles in the automotive magazines were not of particularl interest to me, but I did enjoy perusing the pictures. Soon Ben, a young filipino man of medium stature called out, “Estelina.” We quickly put down our magazines and followed Ben into the examination room. Ben was very friendly and attendant. We immediately felt relaxed as he engaged us in conversation.
My wife climbed up onto the examination table and exposed her now slightly bulging midriff. After setting up his equipment, Ben generously squeezed the clear gel from a large tube on her stomach. He then picked up a strange device that looked like a small scanner with a handle attached to it. The device was connected to a computer via a long white cord. He applied the head of the device to her stomach and then, with a few taps of the keyboard images began to appear on the monitor. Ben worked fast. He did not miss a beat, continuing our deliteful conversation while masterfully scanning, clicking and typing. I do not know if it was his intention, but soon the butterflies that had cavorted in my abdomen only moments ago had disappeared.
Within minutes Ben informed us that everything looked great. The baby was the perfect size and weight for a twenty month old fetus. After a few more clicks and taps, he began his scan once more. “Did you want to find out today?” he asked. We both replied in the affirmative. The butterflies returned in that instance. I could feel the sweat begin to form on my palms. The air in the room grew suddenly stale, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still. As Ben moved his wand over my wifes stomach once more, the image on the screen revealed two small feet. The next images were of a pair of knees and the a buttocks. Then, all of a sudden, I saw it. Protruding forth like a torch that illuminated our paternal bond. There on that black and white screen, stood a little, prominent penis in all of it’s glory. Valiantly, I pushed back the tears and quelched the boisterous outburst that was violently clawing at my vocal cords. I manhandled my swelling pride, subduing it until it could only manifest itself as a big, wide, ear-to-ear, crooked-toothed smile. We are having a boy!