A mother's nose

Emiko's film debut - a 3D ultrasound in real time

Dear Emi,

The first time I felt you move was early in July, during the wee hours of the morning. I hadn't been able to sleep through the night since the moment I got pregnant. I'd wake up two or three times and spend an hour or so surfing the Internet on my laptop while some "Law & Order" rerun I'd TiVo'd played in the background.

That night, I was drifting off to sleep, my hand resting on the right side my growing belly, when I suddenly felt a tiny, but distinct, bump under my palm. It happened so quickly that I thought I'd dreamed it. Wide awake now, I held my breath and lay perfectly still, hoping you'd give me another swift kick so I could be sure. Up until then, I'd only felt faint flutterings, some swishing and swirling, as if I'd swallowed a live fish, and it was swimming around in my stomach.

Dr. Chan had told us at our last appointment that most women start to feel the baby move by the 22nd week. "By then you should feel something that you know is the baby. If you don't, call me," he said. Of course, Week 22 became the next all important deadline to meet. I'd check the calendar anxiously each day, debating whether that last flutter could definitely be counted as fetal movement, or just something I ate. I even questioned whether that first kick had just been some weird gas bubble.

But as the days passed, the swirling in my belly became stronger. One night, as Daddy pressed his hand against my burgeoning bump he was rewarded with a strong, quick stirring. We crowed with delight, while you swam furiously for the peace and quiet on the other side of my womb.

One of the page designers at work who'd recently had a baby told me that later in my pregnancy I'd be able to poke my belly and the baby would poke back. I was enchanted by this possibility of communicating with you via fetal Morse code. Alas, you were not keen on playing along. Several, long seconds would stretch by before you'd eventually give me a reluctant punch. "Emi's slow!" I'd fret. "She has delayed reflexes."

"She's not slow, she's pissed you keep bothering her," Daddy would say, lightly swatting my hand away even as it was poised for another poke.

Feeling you move under my heart reassured me that you were alive and well, so I tried everything I could think of to spur you into action. I talked to you; chattering incessantly about all the things we'd do together once you were born, like reading books, taking walks in the park or making Cornish pasties - a Frink family tradition. We quickly discovered, however, that you responded more to the sound of Daddy's voice than mine. One night, as he read Ma! There's Nothing To Do Here! out loud to my belly, you kicked and squirmed with glee.

I had a little more luck with music. After downloading songs from Sesame Street and The Muppets, I cranked up the volume on your recently purchased, pink, iPod boom box, and danced around the bedroom belting out a slightly off-key "I Love Trash." To my delight, you rewarded me with a series of swishes, kicks and punches. Your daddy claimed you were trying to tell me to be quiet, but I think you were dancing along with me.

I couldn't wait to meet you, but the weeks just dragged by. I desperately longed to connect with you, to see and hold you. In lieu of hugs and kisses, I'd rub my belly almost constantly throughout the day. I imagined what you'd look like. Would you favor the Asian side with straight, black hair and almond-shaped eyes? Or would you be more fair-skinned, with your father's round, hazel eyes and long, curly eyelashes? I hoped for your sake, you'd have my thick, shiny hair and smooth skin.

At one of my doctor visits, I picked up a pamphlet for a company that performed 3D ultrasounds. Still a relatively new technology, most ob/gyns have stuck to the grainy, black and white, 2-dimensional ultrasound machines, including Dr. Chan. I went home and hopped on the Internet to peruse the outfit's web site.

I was instantly intrigued. The sepia-toned images on the site's photo gallery clearly revealed distinctive, physical traits of the unborn infants. Some showed babies who were actually sucking their thumbs! I Google'd more ultrasound labs in our area and found that packages ranged from $95 to $275 and included color prints, photo CDs and in some cases 4-dimensional DVD movies set to music.

I had to haggle with your father before he'd consent to forking over money for a 3D ultrasound. Not that I could blame him. It wasn't too far into the pregnancy before we found out just how expensive it was to have a baby. While our health insurance covered all our medical expenses, we still had to buy all the "baby gear" from nursery furniture to $300 car seats in triplicate. Besides, there was no medical necessity for a 3D ultrasound. It was pure frivolity. Even the labs themselves stated that the ultrasounds were strictly non-diagnostic, meaning the most the technician would say about the health of your baby was confirm it's sex.

I also debated whether I really wanted to see you before you were actually born. Deciding to find out your sex was a no brainer for us, but part of me wanted to save the surprise of finding out what you looked like until we could meet face to face.

Ultimately, however, temptation got the better of me. Especially after one of Daddy's friends, another teacher at his school, posted 3D ultrasound photos on his Facebook page. So on a hot Friday afternoon late in August, I lay on my side in a stuffy exam room as the technician manipulated the wand over my uterus while Daddy sat nearby watching the screen.

Once again, you showed a stubborn desire to be left alone. We must have caught you during your afternoon nap, because your head was pillowed firmly on the placenta, eyes tightly shut, a hand tucked under the chin, and no matter how much I twisted and turned, you refused to budge. The first few images were partially blocked by the placenta and umbilical cord.

So the technician had me walk around for a few minutes, hoping you'd change position. While we completed several laps up and down the hallway, we marveled at the detailed images we'd seen on the ultrasound monitor. "She has your nose," Daddy said.

"She really does, doesn't she!" I exclaimed, pleased I hadn't been the only one to note the similarity. I was thrilled to recognize a part of myself in you, and it was all the more amazing because you hadn't even been born yet.

"Well, it's a very distinctive nose."

"It's my grandmother's nose." Even though I'd always hated my nose, I was absurdly proud that the Gee nasal gene proved strong enough to prevail over four generations. (Later, I dug up an old photo of me with my mom, pau pau and great-grandmother, bok pau, and I realized The Nose - in all it's peasant pudginess - stretched back even farther.)

Back in the exam room, a different, older technician was sent in to have a crack at you. You hadn't moved much, but enough to get several good images. "She is by far the cutest baby I've seen all day, and I don't usually say that," he declared.

We poured over the photos after we left the office and decided that you also seemed to have my round cheeks. But shadows led us to suspect you'd have your father's eyes.