Somehow, more than half this pregnancy has slipped by…slipped mostly to my belly, of course. That bulge under my shirt is about what my bulge looked like at the same time frame when I had two in there. I, of course, refuse to believe that there is any correlation between that and the
eating baking of sweets I indulge in. The wonderful thing is that my tush also looks pregnant. This provides counterbalance, of course. Nature is pretty sweet that way.
I assume, with all the
pastries checks and balances involved with nature’s gentle care of my pregnancy, I will look positively Seussian by the third trimester.
The last 22 weeks were red. Red like the marks on my skin where the elastic in my clothes and undewear dig and settle and landscape my body. Red like the capillaries retreading my face and torso. Red like the blood from my nose and gums. Red like the blood I feared I’d see indicating another miscarriage. Red like the blood doctors are pretty certain they will see by mid-third trimester, the blood that will put me in the hospital. Red like the marks made by my fingernails digging into my palms as I wait for results from blood tests. Red like my face when the prenatal radiologist keep trying to joke that I was getting so many ultrasounds because “obviously [I am] so young.”
During the first trimester, I had a bout of what felt like a hangover for about 4 weeks. During that time, flopping on the couch, keeping my eyes half-open and letting the kids watch 12 hours of television a day seemed like the best course of action. So did eating a lot. I am not one of those preggos who cannot tolerate food. All food felt great.
I was poked and prodded and splayed out of various tables. My age is a concern. My previous twin pregnancy is a concern. My fibroids are a concern. And, it would seem, my very pregnancy is a concern…at least to my family who keep trying to get me to stop washing my floors. (Disclaimer: I almost never wash my floors, so I have no idea where this concern comes from. It would make more sense if they were concerned about my actual floors.)
All the tests came back fine. Better than fine. My doctor told me I have the “numbers of a 20-year-old.” If only I had the body of one. Or the energy. Or the societal permission to be a dumb-ass…but I digress.
My primary OB seems the only one not concerned at this point. She doesn’t think I’m a knocked-up Grandma Moses. She didn’t tell me to stop having sex or, more importantly, to stop mopping my floors. (She didn’t, however, tell me to start doing so, either.) She merrily sent me to my Level 2 u/s.
This is typically the ultrasound done at about 20 weeks to make sure baby is fine and mama is fine. Most people think of this as the Big One — after all, if desired, the sex of the baby will be revealed.
Two weeks ago, Huzzy and I went to the hospital to have this done. We heard that baby was incredibly healthy, active, and cute. You know, as cute as a mini-Skeletor can be on a monitor. For a few moments, baby had its feet planted well into its crotch…and then, after I laughed and shifted baby…
“It’s a girl…”
And I went numb…..