AT MY ANTENATAL class I sit near a woman who after a few minutes confesses she has developed a mighty crush on the man who does our fortnightly ultrasound scans.
“I mean, I wouldn’t look twice at him on the street,” she clarifies in a low voice. “But in the scan room, when he comes in with his cappuccino and his sleeves rolled up and hardly saying a word to me, just taking the babies’ measurements . . . he’s just so hot, do you know what I mean? And if he talks to me for longer than a few sentences, I go all funny. It’s a challenge every time to engage him a bit more and if I do get his attention it’s like, oh my God! Do you think he’ll be there on the day? I mean, if I asked him really nicely? Is this normal? Fancying the consultant? It all seems a bit wrong.”
I consider, for a nanosecond, pretending I don’t have a clue what she’s babbling on about, but she’s gone all pink in the cheeks from the confession and I just can’t leave my fellow pregnant woman hanging.
“It’s perfectly normal,” I tell her. “And I can confirm he is definitely, as you put it, hot.” I tell her what I’ve heard from other women, that the consultant crush is an apparently well-documented phenomenon. It’s bad enough in singleton pregnancies where the appointments are less frequent, but seeing him every two weeks in the twins clinic must be adding another layer of intensity to an already mystical relationship. “You’re telling me,” sighs my new friend.
Both our partners, wisely, say nothing during this exchange. They’ve learned the hard way that a diplomatic silence is usually the best course to take when the conversation strays into crazy pregnant lady territory.
The thing is, fancying the scan man is a bit like them fancying Angelina Jolie – safe as houses because, let’s face it, nothing is ever going to happen. The only difference with our crush is that we’ve seen him every two weeks for the past six months and had our naked bellies stroked by him each time. It’s unlikely they’ll ever get that far with Angelina, in fairness.
It was sort of a gradual thing with me. One week he was just the man who did the scan, the next I found myself trying to think of things to ask him just so I’d get an extra few seconds in his company.
I prided myself on the subtlety of my advances but then I became so irrationally intoxicated that I wanted to share the experience with someone close to me.
I brought my mother in for one of the appointments. Big mistake. When I introduced them, all casual like, she went, “Ah, Mr X, I’ve heard such a lot about you,” and I had to dig her in the ribs to stop her elaborating.
“What?” she hissed. “I could be talking about his medical reputation.” But I reckon that little episode blew my cover and he’s pretty much had my number ever since. (He has it now anyway, for sure. Oops.)
I’ve since tried to mix things up a bit by succumbing to other hormonally charged crushes. There was an all-too-brief assignation with the heavenly Colin Firth in a Dublin hotel recently. I told him he was by far the best singer of the Mamma Mia men.
“Keep it up,” I whispered enigmatically before diving on a platter of fish-and-chip canapés.
And while Bono-bashing is depressingly trendy this weather, I've found my long-term crush on him being reignited with the release of the new U2 album. I don't care where the band pay their tax dollars – their perfectly legal global business is none of my business – but I do care about Bono's personal commitment to making the world a better place and I care that he is still writing moving, mercurial songs such as Magnificent, Breathe, White as Snowand Moment of Surrender.
Even Bono can’t hold a candle to the scan man, though. And it seems where he’s concerned, I’ve no shame any more.
I thought it would take ages to pluck up the courage to ask the big question, but enquiring whether there’s any possibility he might be around on the day itself proves a doddle.
“So,” I venture. “When I come in to have these babies, is it possible you might just happen to be there by coincidence and help to deliver them?” He says that yes, if he’s on call at the exact same time, it could happen, but he makes it sound highly unlikely so as not to lead me on. Bah.
Then he turns to other more pressing matters. For some time now, Baby A and Baby B have both been positioned feet first, which is why it feels as if the Irish rugby team are having a party in my pelvis most nights.
If they haven’t turned the right way around by this week’s scan, he says, it’s unlikely they ever will, given that it’s getting rather crowded in there. The upshot is that I should get my head around the possibility that I will be having a Caesarean section. He throws this out there as if he’s suggesting afternoon tea, with the effect that my ardour instantly cools.
Not long afterwards the papers are full of talk about a man who tried to sue a hospital after his wife’s emergency C-section.
He sued because the midwife had the temerity to ask him to turn off his video camera while she performed an emergency clearance of his new baby’s airways. The case was thrown out, obviously.
My boyfriend, in contrast, says he promises not to even watch the action, never mind try to make a home movie of the occasion.
“I’ll stay up your end, hold your hand and feed you Lucozade and bars of Whole Nut,” he says, manfully sacrificing his prime viewing spot to cater for my needs.
And just like that I have another new crush. One that can actually be consummated. Well, just about.
roisin@irishtimes.com
