Let's leave scans to the experts and wait for the birth to celebrate In other words, the most senior midwife in the country is telling us to chill out, grow up and step away from the ultrasound machine. Pregnancy, especially for the over-forties (a group that has grown 71 per cent since 2001), can be complicated and unpredictable. Mother Nature never intended us to look at a £3 fridge magnet of our developing foetus every time we reached for the milk. Having had three normal water-births, I always preferred to bypass the £700 pram, and instead spend £300 on a conclusive scan carried out by a foetal medicine doctor. I was paying for there to be no surprises (and none of my little ones ever complained about being pushed about in a cheap buggy). Ultrasound scans are arguably the greatest gift to pregnant couples: carried out in a medical setting by fully qualified practitioners who are audited by the relevant bodies, they diagnose, prepare or simply reassure. Problems can be explained; options discussed. Wayne and Coleen Rooney are, apparently, just one of the many couples who got the caterers in and held a family "do" around a mobile scanning machine - in their case, to ooh and aah at unborn baby Kai. But a shindig is no setting for a hi-tech diagnostic medical tool. Low levels of amniotic fluid or a poorly functioning umbilical cord should never be reasons for a party to turn flat. Sadly, NHS ante-natal care is now so poor for British women that private firms offering foetus parties and champagne packages (complete with DVD and key-ring) have spotted a lucrative niche. Prof Warwick slams this trend as the "commercialisation and commodification of pregnancy and childbirth." Websites selling 4D scans and tacky memorabilia don't primarily provide medical care; they offer a chance for mothers to "bond" with their unborn child. And failure to bond is a very powerful stick with which to beat vulnerable, pregnant women. Mother Nature intends us to maintain a healthy detachment from our offspring, otherwise she would have fitted a spy-hole instead of a belly button. A pregnant abdomen hides the greatest secret in the world (to be glimpsed only when necessary by the gift of medical advancement). Between babies two and three, I had a miscarriage that was thankfully too early to have been scanned at the standard 12-week marker. While a pregnant woman's desire for early reassurance is completely understandable, I was relieved never to have seen even a foetal outline. It was far easier to be philosophical about an amorphous collection of cells than it would have been had I witnessed the embryo as the start of a human form. Expensive 4D scans, available only privately, were originally developed to identify foetal abnormalities such as cleft palates, disfiguring genetic conditions and various skeletal anomalies. I distinctly remember the first time I saw one of these bizarre images on my pregnant friend's kitchen pin board. It made me a little queasy - as though I'd flicked through her digital camera and accidentally seen her and her husband naked. Another acquaintance had several scans, identified the sex, named the impending girl and decorated the bedroom pink. Nobody could accuse her of not having "bonded." So when a healthy boy eventually arrived (even 4D scans need to be seen by someone properly qualified) she had to grieve for the daughter she had lost. Even though London's Foetal Medicine Centre, where I was scanned, offered those as standard, I chose not to look at the unborn images of any of my three children, leaving their assessment instead to the lovely lady doctor with good hair. There is no bigger rush than looking your newborn in the face for the first time. Why would I risk taking the edge off the world's greatest high?