Aug
13
August 13, 2007
I had an ultrasound scheduled for this morning, for which I had been previously given a helpful sheet of instructions commanding me to drink four (!) 8 oz. glasses of water one hour before the appointment. Now, I remember doing this specific ultrasound last time, and I also remember sitting in the waiting room far past the scheduled time, until I had to pee so badly I actually heaved a little sob of anguish when I went up to the receptionist and begged to be allowed to go to the bathroom. They did let me go pee “just a little bit” (you ought to try that sometime, by the way, peeing just a wee tinkle or two when you’ve got Lake Superior sloshing around in your bladder — it’s like the Olympic event of Kegels), then forced more water in me; I couldn’t even begin to enjoy the ultrasound because I was so preoccupied with using the Force to keep from spraying down the entire room each time the tech pressed on my abdomen.
This time I just chugged most of a Dasani as I drove to the hospital, and the entire experience was far less traumatic. I definitely had to pee by the time they were done, but it was more of a “Whew, there’s a bathroom” and less of a “TAKE COVER! MY GOD, DON YOUR SELF-CONTAINED UNDERWATER BREATHING APPARATUS!” situation.
This ultrasound was primarily done for the nuchal screening, which I hadn’t realized was an optional test—it was just scheduled for me last time. I’m with a different OB this time, who presented it to me as an option. I chose to do it partially because if there was a problem that could be revealed at this point, I guess I’d like us to know sooner than later in order to prepare and educate ourselves, and also because HOORAY ULTRASOUND. Other than the whole bladder-exploding thing, I love ultrasounds and would get one every day if it were possible.
Everything seemed normal according to the technician, so that’s a relief. And because the technician was learning how to use a new machine she took a nice long time to review everything, which she kept apologizing for and I kept saying “It’s okay! No really, it’s fine!” because I got many, many tantalizing glimpses of my grainy black-and-white innards (although . . . listen, I know ultrasounds are not for the patient’s amusement, but would it kill them to provide a second screen, maybe one projected from the ceiling? I’m just saying, my neck hurts).
There was Smalltopus (Secondtopus sounds a little too secondary, so I’m going with Small for now), wriggling, waving her/his arms and legs. Wah! So awesome. It was wonderful to feel that joyous excitement and to be reminded that I am in fact gestating a human being and not just suffering from a spectacular case of gas.
This pregnancy is different for me in so many ways—I often feel a little bad that I’m not nearly as consumed as I was before. When I saw the baby’s heartbeat today, I remembered that when I was pregnant with Riley I rented one of those heartbeat doppler things and used it constantly to make sure he was, you know, not DEAD or anything (after, of course, immediately scaring the bejesus out of myself when I picked up my own heartbeat and became convinced the baby was experiencing some sort of horrible cardiac malfunction). This time, I guess I just have this blind faith that Smalltopus’s heart is beating, that he/she is growing and thriving and doing the things a fetus does (playing solitaire, whistling idly, using umbilical cord as double-dutch rope, etc).
Either I am far more distracted, or I’ve learned that it’s pointless to obsess over things I can’t control. It’s probably a good trade-off, I might not be giving this pregnancy as much mental air time but I’m also not quite as focused on the various Unspeakable Tragedies that could be happening to the baby right this minute.
As a final note, during one of the ultrasounds in my last pregnancy, three (apparently harmless) gallstones were revealed. This time, no mention of such a thing. Have I somehow absorbed them? Did they migrate somewhere disturbing, like maybe the part of my brain dedicated to remembering every single lyric from “Paul Revere”? It is a mystery.
Aug
11
August 11, 2007
Okay, Whole Foods-lovers, don’t go getting your organic sustainably-harvested cotton undies in a knot — I like their stuff just fine, especially their insanely wonderful selection of chantrelles and their salmon-cream cheese spread and their mango salsa. I do, however, reserve the right to bitch about 1) their Kleenex selection, which is limited to Seventh Generation and I don’t care how great that shit is for the earth, it will rip your nose-flesh right the hell off, and 2) the fact that I can’t make it out of there without spending at least $100.
Oh, and the shopping experience itself kind of blows. Maybe it’s just my local store, but my fellow shoppers always seem to be sort of . . . you know when you’re pushing your cart down an aisle, and there’s someone standing smack dab in the middle staring at the selection of Spinach-Paprika Puffs or whatever, and they don’t move? Until you finally clear your throat and say, “Excuse me,” and they have the nerve to look annoyed? I don’t know, my store seems full of these folks, and I can tell you from personal experience that if you try and squeeze your cart as close to the edge of the aisle as possible so you don’t cause any further annoyance to Healthy McShithead, the eagle-eyed toddler in your cart seat is going to end up shoplifting at least seven cans of Annie’s Certified Organic “P’sghetti Loops with Soy Meatballs” , which he is not even going to EAT.
Anyway! Enough about Whole Freaking Foods. Did you know I grow my own tomatoes and thus am a fine upstanding citizen after all? Well, sure, they’re green and tiny and seem to be suffering from some sort of blight, but still. Why, if I had to live off the land . . . um, yeah, we’d be fucked. Can you grow a Two-Bite Brownie plant? I’m just wondering.
Also, the boy has entered a new stage of toddlerhood. I call it All Weird, All The Time.
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