Scantastic

As a geriatric mother, I have the bonus of extra chromosomal tests, etc, to reassess my risk of having a Down Syndrome baby or one with Trisomy disorders. This involves a blood test, followed a couple of days later by a detailed scan primarily looking at the thickness of a fold of skin at the baby's neck. The resulting information is keyed into a computer alongside my age, and then revised odds are spat out by the program. This in turn then leads to a recommendation as to whether to have amniocentesis. It's all a question of relative probabilities in that amniocentesis itself carries a 1-2% risk of miscarriage, so it's obviously not worth undergoing lightly. Some people of course don't want to know either way, and that's their choice. But I felt that I needed to know.

It was also a great chance for D to attend a scan, seeing as he missed almost all of them last time around, having the immense rudeness to be in a different hemisphere. Like a solar eclipse, witnessing the real thing is incomparable to a snapshot photo record. And so there we were, able to discern the new baby in all its smudgy glory, wriggling about and gulping amniotic fluid with gusto.

I have luck in bucketsful, really. My risk of any abnormalities with this pregnancy turns out to be that of a 23 year old rather than a 39 year old. I have lost no time in reminding D that he is married to a 23 year old - well, on the inside, anyway. He's gone from toy-boy to sugar-daddy in the blink of an eye.