Doctor visit!

Today's doctor visit was once again rather uneventful. I'm measuring at about 33 weeks, which I still think is rather small for my 39 weeks (especially since the doctor told me that's about what I was measuring at last week), but I'm still not worried and am instead thrilled I can still move and bend over on occasion. 

The fun part was listening to the heartbeat. It thumped away until at one point it sped up. The doctor told me that meant Baby Girl was planning to move. And she did! We listened to her heartbeat go up and down in coordination with her movements for another minute or two, and I was complimented on Baby's strong heartbeat. Good.

And then we were done: I'm going back a week from Monday because next week is booked. If I make it to my next visit, I'll be overdue!

This visit began with an annoyance and a triumph. The triumph was that I handed in my kick count card and the nurse forgot to give me another one. Perfect.

The annoyance was that at my last visit, they forgot to give back my drug form. The drug form (I don't know its official name) is something you're supposed to remember to bring with you to every appointment so they can temporarily stick it in your chart. Considering the fact that a week ago I came all too close to mailing a letter with no address, return address or stamp, it's kind of a long shot to expect me to haul a drug form back and forth to the doctor's office. Nevertheless, I've done a great job of remembering--and last week they were the ones that screwed up.

I wouldn't be at all annoyed (see paragraph above about kick count forms) except for the fact that if you don't have your drug form, you have to fill out a new one. You're supposed to list all of the drugs and supplements you've taken for the last who-knows-how-long. And the start dates, stop dates, dosages and frequencies for each one. I've filled out at least 5 of these already, and I can guarantee they don't match. For one thing, I always spell Penicillin a different way (it's hard not to). For another, can you remember, offhand with a brain that's filled with fuzz rather than any real memory, when was the last time you took a prescription? Or Tylenol?

I choose not to remember very well (or sometimes my brain chooses for me). I always list the same four things, with whatever dates seem reasonable at the time, and I don't know if I've ever listed doses or frequencies, or Tylenol. If I weren't a healthy person, I would take it more seriously--the same philosophy that keeps me from feeling guilty about neglecting to religiously fill out kick count cards.

So when I checked in for my appointment and the slightly-brisk receptionist asked me for my drug form, I very politely asked her if she could check in my chart because they'd forgotten to give it back to me last time. I don't think she believed me (would you believe a pregnant woman who was blaming someone else for being forgetful?), but she did me the courtesy of opening my chart for half a second and slamming it shut. It "wasn't in there" so I was promptly given a clipboard with the dreaded empty form. I miss my old one.

I do wonder, though, if anyone there has ever heard of a copy machine. Or they could keep the original, since they seem to like these things so much. This is yet another good reason to have the baby soon: no more drug forms.

What time is it?

It's a bit unsettling when the expiration date on the milk in your refrigerator matches your due date. Will you even get to finish the milk?

When you're pregnant, time is one of the many things that no longer cooperates with you. You learn that the timeframe of 40 weeks isn't connected to reality in any way. In fact, most pregnancies are much longer than 40 weeks, lasting decades or more. Here's how I figure:

You buy a pregnancy test. On the way home, several major holidays come and go. You take the test, and another month passes before you see that second pink line. The next 8 months (give or take) stretch to infinity. Google searches around this time focus on pregnancy symptoms: "Queasy, pregnant," "Miserable, pregnant," and finally "Does the nausea ever end, pregnant."

The idea of being pregnant begins to sink in. For a few panicked moments you're trying to click the undo button, only to realize that blessed little arrow exists only in your word-processing program. The next couple of days pass before you've even had breakfast. With Google's help, you begin trying to calculate just when you may give birth so you have an optimal amount of warning.

You've scheduled your first doctor visit for the end of the month (you're at the beginning) and are told you'll get an ultrasound. When your baby reaches his/her first birthday, you finally head in for your appointment and get to see the little bean. Google begins to reveal more ways you can expect to be miserable for the next 7 months, as well as cute bedding choices for both boys and girls.

Now you just have to make it through week 12, so that your hazardous first trimester is over. As you can't really shop, you can only half-heartedly think about names, and you're too queasy and exhausted to leave the couch, each day is like a thousand years. Google, and everyone you meet on the street, tells you to try soda crackers or ginger.

Yay, week 13! The next few weeks are some of the only ones that feel even close to normal, that is if you're not still queasy. A couple Google searches for most trendy baby names help you rule out  Aiden and Addison.

At your week-16 appointment, you schedule your week-20 ultrasound. Time goes backwards until the night before when you're so freaked that you no longer exist within time and have transferred to your own universe where dimensions are so weird I can't even describe them with words other than "purple" and "floaty." Google is busy sending you ultrasound pictures you can pore over as you earn an honorary degree in ultrasonography.

After the ultrasound, you once again relax for a few weeks. It helps that you can finally shop and plan. You're simply excited, so time slows down in close correlation to the way it feels leading up to Christmas when you're a kid (or just someone who really likes Christmas). You look to Google for help with planning your nursery.

You hit week 30. Or rather, it hits you like a ton of bricks. All of a sudden, you can count your remaining weekends on two hands. You're not making as many future plans as you were. And you are beginning to see just how much stuff you have to get done. What's more, you realize that you really need to get it all done before week 37 or 38, because Baby could come anytime after that. Time rolls along at a pretty good clip the next few weeks, almost as it does when you're on a really nice vacation and will return to a not-so-nice job. Google lets you know that you should be vigilant about any signs of preterm labor or pre-eclampsia.

A few weeks later (around week 37, for me), you realize you're growing slightly more uncomfortable. You'd like an actual night of sleep again (realizing full well you won't get one for months or years after the baby comes but the sooner you start, the sooner you sleep), and your toenails could use a good clipping. You're ready to be done. Time responds by stopping, so that week 37 lasts through the end of your pregnancy and doesn't become week 38 until the next leap year. You run to Google once an hour for information on "is this labor?"

Nearing week 39, I'm neither wildly impatient nor intensely freaked, believe it or not, making time feel like it's marching on at a relatively steady, normal pace. I am, however, at the point at which I would rather go into labor than, say, attend a freelance meeting or sweep the floor (nesting seems to have been a week 36-37 thing, unfortunately). Labor would simply be more convenient. Google searches are telling me that my backache could mean I'll go into labor in the next 2-3 weeks. No kidding! Google is losing its credibility.

I've gotten good at waiting, apparently. Pregnancy must be nature's way of honing your patience. The true test will begin within 2-3 weeks.

[Matt's favorite comment throughout my pregnancy has been, by the way, "I'll sure be glad when all this is over!" Fortunately, he says it with a smile.]

Doctor visit!

Today's appointment was relatively uneventful--more so than the last two. Blood pressure was fine, I gained a pound (7 pounds in 5 weeks, not bad!), heartbeat sounded great (even though for the first time we had to chase her a little bit to get it). I forgot to ask what I was measuring, but I'm no longer worried at all so that's okay.

I was told I'm strep B positive, which simply means I'll have to have antibiotics during labor to make sure Baby Girl is okay. Without the antibiotics, there'd be a small chance she'd develop a serious condition or something. They were able to test and find out that my particular strep B culture is resistant to an antibiotic that started with a C and inconclusive toward an antibiotic that started with an I. I'm allergic to penicillin, so that leaves what I'm told is a relatively strong one, an antibiotic that starts with a B. Fine by me.

So let's talk about kick count cards. Every visit for the past month or so, I've been given an index card with a chart and instructions on how to count Baby Girl's kicks.

Kick count week 1: I read the directions wrong. Annoyed and astounded at the idea of lying on my side for an hour every single day, presumably until I deliver, to count baby movement I was not at all worried about (she's a regular boxer in there), I declined to do it. Who has the time? The card taunted me the entire week and I conveniently forgot it at my next appointment. To my dismay, they gave me another for the next week.

Kick count week 2: I griped to a friend who'd gone through the same practice I'm at. She set me straight on the instructions: apparently, you only have to count until you reach 4 kicks. No big deal. I always keep track of kicks mentally and qualitatively, anyway, and always feel plenty, so 10 minutes before my next appointment, I filled out the card for the past week. The nurse was just happy I turned it in. She neglected to give me another, so I was off the hook for the next visit.

Kick count week 3: Despite the fact that I didn't have one to turn in the previous week, a different nurse gave me another card, albeit while commenting she thought they were pointless. It went promptly into the recycle bin.

Kick count week 4 (this week): I didn't have a card to turn in this visit, and the nurse gently and sweetly told me how important it is to keep track of Baby's movements (apparently this nurse didn't think they were pointless). I told her about Baby Girl's abusive tendencies, but that I had noticed she'd quieted down for the past day or so. Shouldn't it be enough that I'm really tuned into it? I was given a card for next week and I'm still figuring out what to do with it.

Is it wrong to want to give birth soon simply so I don't have to deal with kick count cards anymore? Probably.

The hospital tour

I'll admit that the first little bit of Tuesday's hospital tour left me a tiny bit offended. The table we all sat around had a newspaper at every other seat. The women were all offered a packet chock full of wordy information, as well as a pre-registration form, and the men were offered the sports section. While I was responsible for entering all our insurance information into the form, Matt's task was to report on how Tiger Woods won his most recent victory. Hmm. I hoped this wouldn't set the tone for our entire hospital stay (will they plop Matt down in front of ESPN as I writhe in pain alone in the corner trying to produce a child?) and kept my mouth shut.

I'd been told by someone who had taken the tour before (you know who you are!) we would be provided with delicious chocolate-chip cookies to eat. Nope. Not even a cup of water. I had to make it through the 45-minute tour with no sustenance whatsoever. I plan to make that up to myself in my first meal after delivery.

Yes, food really is all I think about.

Our stay will begin in a bright, large and airy, relatively attractive labor room. Amenities include access to a state-of-the-art VCR, a vinyl couch and a vinyl rocking chair. Ice chips and chicken broth will be allowed (I didn't ask if we could put the ice chips in the chicken broth), but almost all other food will have to be smuggled in. Apparently laboring mothers aren't even afforded the comfort a chocolate bar can bring in their hour of need (unless their husbands are cooperative). No wonder women giving birth are often cranky.

After Baby Girl arrives, she will be wheeled away (over my dead body) for testing and such, and I will be wheeled into a storage closet. Oh wait, what? That's our room?

When we were told we'd have accommodations for two (plus the baby), we hadn't taken into account the fact that the room would've seemed a nice one in the former Soviet Union, but not in modern-day America. I wasn't sure which bed looked least comfortable--the hospital bed I'll be sleeping on or the fold-out recliner Matt will use to catch his shut-eye. The recliner looked to be vinyl, again, but the bed's mattress was only about 4 inches thick and looked well-used. Each was about 12 inches wide. Lack of an IV pole made the recliner my top pick, but I imagine I won't be asked my opinion. We may have to change our reservation so we're staying only 1 night instead of 2, although the room service will be nice. We didn't even bother to ask about an indoor pool.

We learned along the way that if you have a c-section, they take your baby away almost immediately for a good 4 hours or so for testing, monitoring and all the little treatments they have to do. If that happens, please hit me over the head with something blunt so I'm not awake for it.

Considering Baby Girl is going to be adorable, well-behaved and in the lower range of poopiness, we were glad to see that security is very tight. Sorry to disappoint, but you won't be able to sneak away with her. Visit us after about 2 weeks, however, and we will probably be ready to give the screaming child to whomever shows up on our doorstep first, assuming you still want her.

The strangest thing was that was were only able to see 1 baby, and that only for a second and because family members were looking at it through a window. It's bad marketing, if you ask me.

And that was pretty much the tour. I've concluded that while parts of this might be fun, it won't be much of a vacation.

Little plastic pieces everywhere

I feel I owe my deepest apologies to any of you who have ever set foot in our house before. The dust on top of the doorways was horrendous. I was, as I'm sure all of you were, properly disgusted when I discovered it. I took care of it a couple days ago and it's gone now, so I hope you'll find it in your hearts to return.

That's right: I've entered a stage of pregnancy renowned for the psychotic frenzy it induces in pregnant women. It's called nesting, and it's in the top 3 of my favorite things about pregnancy.

Nesting is a bit like the game Perfection that used to be so popular: you have a bunch of little plastic pieces and you have to put them all into their proper places before the timer runs out and takes years off your life as it rockets all the pieces into far corners of the room. Those of you who can't see any parallels here to having a baby have obviously never been around one.

In my case, the little plastic pieces are tasks that simply must be completed before Baby Girl arrives or she'll leave in contempt. They've included everything from reorganizing my own closet to cleaning garbage cans. (And getting the nursery finished as well--but we'll save that for another post!)

Unfortunately, my house itself is a bit like another plastic puzzle game popular in childhood--the square thing with 15 plastic tiles you have to slide into place using just 1 empty space to make a nice, neat picture. The particular challenge my house presents is that it's rather small, so to get one space organized you have to pretty thoroughly trash another, just like the puzzle game. The mess travels throughout the house in this way, occasionally shrinking and often growing larger.

Currently, if the picture in the sliding puzzle were a kitten, the kitten my house could be compared to would have one ear coming out of it's tail, a paw that's upside down and an orange spot where a gray spot is supposed to be, but otherwise would function as a pretty cute kitten. That's an improvement from even just a couple weeks ago, when the kitten would more resemble a crocodile, and a mean one at that.

Combine the two games--Perfection and the sliding puzzle--and you'll see that if I'd gone into early labor, we'd have a lot bigger problems than dusty doorways.

Fortunately, something in a pregnant woman's body kicks into overdrive in the weeks before birth to solve the dusty-doorway problem. It's so intense that I wonder what nesting pioneer women used to do. I have an entire house to get into order--and they only had 1 small, dusty room to organize. I can imagine them going slightly crazy as they swept that little dirt floor over and over to get it sparkling clean for Baby, much to the annoyance of sneezing family members who realize they now have to step down to enter the cabin. Of course, considering the local Target would've been a day's walk and rather sparse, maybe they put all that energy into making cute little outfits and crib bedding.

Watching a pregnant woman nest is a bit like watching a whale rock climb. For instance, she can't actually get near anything she's trying to clean--either her belly is too big or she can't really maneuver that way, so she has to kind of flop toward things, duster or rag in hand, and hope for the best. This leads to a lot of miscellaneous items falling on the ground, where she has to bend over* to pick them up--another challenge that could be misconstrued as humorous to the onlooker, especially as she gets creative in using her bare feet as an extra set of hands.

Speaking as the aforementioned whale, nesting is, therefore, a complete contradiction, and at times a rather cruel one. Nesting first instills in the pregnant woman an undeniable and rather desirable drive to get the house in order, and then renders her almost helpless to finish the job. And then it imposes a time limit (without, of course, telling the pregnant woman when she can expect to be out of time).

And poor Matt. Recognizing that Baby Girl will actually be joining us in just a few weeks (or hours), he's given me carte blanche on the honey-do list. Or at least that's what I'm conveniently assuming. I add things as fast as he can cross them off, and there's no end in sight (but don't tell him that). He's dealt with it in good humor, though, even when it crosses the line from Tasks That Seem Reasonable (installing carseat bases) to Tasks That Seem Strange and Uneccessary (hanging a perfectly good quilt on the wall in the nursery simply for decoration).

Yet I'm thrilled about nesting. Not only does it help me occupy the ever-lengthening days until the stork decides to knock on our door (a girl can dream, right?), but the house has never looked or felt better. Truthfully, without the nesting instinct, Baby Girl could expect to spend her first couple weeks sleeping in a plastic tote with only the good cat's favorite blanket as padding. Worse, her cute little socks wouldn't be washed, matched and carefully arranged by size in a cute little canvas box.

Despite all the nesting fun, I've learned through this that Baby Girl is quite the demanding little person. She's more demanding than any of our previous houseguests (who have returned again and again despite the dust over the doorways), and tougher to fool (nesting demands that I no longer just stuff anything unsightly into my closet). Here's hoping she finds everything to her satisfaction.


*Bending over in late pregnancy is a challenge not because pregnant women are inherently lazy, but because it's actually physically difficult. To simulate bending over as a pregnant woman, insert a 12-inch section of a 2x4 into your abdomen and seal it up (I'll let you figure out how to do this). Now bend over. See? You might be able to accomplish the same thing by strapping a ruler tightly to your abdomen, but I can't exactly test that right now. The thing is that Baby Girl's bones are fairly solid, so when she doesn't want me to bend over, we don't.

Ultrasound=good!

Whew. I don't know if I'll ever be able to truly enjoy an ultrasound, but this one went just fine. As you may remember from last week (personally, I could hardly think of anything else), Baby Girl was measuring small. Actually, my abdomen was measuring small, which led them to believe that Baby was small.

There are three good things about ultrasounds.
1.) seeing the baby
2.) getting to lie on your back
3.) bringing your husband along to your appointment

There are myriad bad things about ultrasounds, mainly in the form of birth defects and other problems you can find out about at them. Fortunately, yesterday's ultrasound was only good.

Partially packed hospital bag in tow, just in case, Matt and I met up at the doctor's office and made polite conversation to calm our worries, probably about deer meat or something, until it was time for the appointment.

We love the ultrasound tech--not only does she have a great reputation, but she also saved us the trouble of being the shallow couple who asks for a gender confirmation at an ultrasound to make sure everything's okay with the baby by offering it to us straight up. Seeing as Baby Girl wasn't cooperating as much as she could've been last time, our answer was a resounding yes, please!

First things first, though: I asked to see the face. Unfortunately, Baby's face was a little squished and not really turned the right way, so we couldn't tell whose nose she has, let alone get any good pictures. Her little arm was once again up along her face, just like at the 20-week ultrasound. Her heart was pumping away at the rate of 140 beats per minute, pretty average for a fetus.

We then took measurements of the head, abdomen and femur to make sure she's growing okay. The head measured in at about 34 weeks, 1 day. The femur was about 35 weeks 4 days, and the abdomen, which she couldn't get a great measurement of because of a little leg that was in the way, was about 37 weeks, 1 day. According to my probably-pretty-accurate estimated due date, I'm 37 weeks (full term!!!) today.

What we have on our hands is probably a chubby baby with a smallish head. I think that sounds pretty cute! The doctor wasn't worried at all about the discrepancy--just as people come in all shapes and sizes, so do fetuses.

And Baby Girl is still a girl! You may remember from my very first post that the tech wasn't absolutely sure (yet she was quite confident, and has a 100% accuracy rate). Apparently, this happens quite a bit--she told us that just yesterday she'd had 4 couples with a similar situation, and all with baby girls. Nevertheless, I was quite relieved that she got a great view this time, and Baby Girl's nursery (which is almost complete--I will post more pictures when it is) won't need to be redone last-minute. I was also relieved that we hadn't been calling a boy Baby Girl this whole time--how humiliating it would be for him! I like a good surprise, but I would've felt terrible for the poor baby.

Ultrasound over, we headed back upstairs to the lobby to wait for my regular doctor's appointment.

I didn't gain a single pound last week! It's evil of me to be proud of that, and Matt insisted I should be eating more. Do I take advantage of this to get all the ice cream out of him I possibly can before delivery? I have a feeling that's a decision I'd regret. I've gained plenty this pregnancy and it's normal to slow down toward the end. I tried to calculate how many pounds I averaged each week for the past four weeks, but the calculation involved fractions and is too complex for my pregnant brain.

My belly measured at almost 34 weeks this week, up another two weeks. I think Baby Girl is growing!

We learned from the ultrasound that Baby is probably in the 38th to 39th percentile for size, and her estimated weight is 6 pounds 6 ounces. What?!? That's like a real newborn! That's bigger than several babies I've known when they were born! What a porker! And she might not be born for a month yet! As the doctor said, I'm apparently all baby. That's good to hear, except for the fact that I've actually gained a significant (though extremely average) amount of weight this pregnancy. Where has it all gone? It's a mystery. Hopefully it'll mysteriously disappear after delivery as well. The weight estimate, by the way, can be off by 1 or 2 pounds, which even my math-challenged mind knows is pretty significant.

Since I'm now full term, birth could happen any day! Or, it could be a month. Stay tuned to find out.

My belly and I

If you talked with me at all between weeks 16 and 30, you heard me bemoan the fact that I had managed to grow a baby while neglecting to grow a belly. I'm sure this got as old for you as it did for me.

Around week 16 or so, I got so tired of not having even the faintest baby bump that I started to worry the baby wasn't getting enough nutrition (ice-cream). I feasted for a week or two and noticed some results: I had achieved the fat-stage-of-pregnancy belly (not to be at all confused with a cute, medium-sized pregnant belly) that would be my constant companion for the next several months. The doctors complimented me on my steady, yet controlled weight gain.

My reasons for wanting a true pregnant belly were as follows:

1.) Pregnant bellies are cute. Many of my friends grew adorable bellies, and it was my turn. After all, they'd loaned me their clothes, the least I could do would be to actually fit into them.
2.) Pregnant bellies give you a place to rest your hands when you're sitting bored in a meeting. I'd watched several coworkers do this, and I wanted to as well: it looked like more fun than most meetings I've been in (I can now say assuredly that it is).
3.) People treat you better when you have a pregnant belly: they open doors for you, lift heavy items, etc.
4.) People smile at you more when they see you're pregnant. They're friendlier. All I got were scowls and glares that clearly said "shouldn't you be doing more sit-ups?"
5.) There's no resisting rubbing your own pregnant belly, especially when Baby is kicking. However, when you rub a small I-got-fat-instead-of-pregnant belly, you simply look like you're hungry (or like you've eaten too much and have indigestion), and you get extra scowls and glares.
6.) When you finally achieve the am-I-fat-or-pregnant belly, it only adds more uncomfortable confusion, as people look at you a little longer than they would if they were simply dismissing you as "fat," but still think it better not to say anything. Despite the fact that I agree it's much better to be safe than sorry on this one, it got old when people usually chose the "she might just be fat" route.

Lack of a cute pregnant belly brings with it several inconveniences. For instance, my first baby shower was around week 27. I could still hide my belly, which is a rather embarrassing problem to have at your baby shower. I briefly considered ordering a belly pillow just so that I'd look appropriately pregnant, lest my guests shake their heads at me and leave without so much as having a piece of cake with me. Fortunately, they're all nice people and enjoy cake enough to pretend, so even if they privately thought I was deluded and making much too big a deal about several months worth of binge eating, they were as gracious as they could possibly be.

And then there's the fact that people had to occasionally be reminded that I was sick, tired and achy for two, now, so I could receive appropriate pampering (usually in the form of lifting heavy items). Not that they're not perfectly helpful when they are reminded, but I started to feel like a bit of a nag at the expense of protecting my baby and my back. And naggy, pregnant women are invited to parties even less often than slightly fat, deluded women.

Walking was a problem too--not general grocery-store walking, but walking around our hilly neighborhood. Hauling myself up hill after hill, having practice contractions all the way but with no noticeable belly to speak of, I could practically hear people saying to each other and their dogs "What's wrong with her? Sure, she's a bit thick around the middle, but she can barely even walk? Pathetic."

Because even when you don't look very pregnant, it's very possible to feel very pregnant.

But my lack of a belly had its advantages, too. Here's a sample conversation from my small-bellied days:

Them: "You're pregnant? How far along are you?"
Me, proudly: "Almost 7 months"
Them: "But you're so small!"

Really, that's not a bad thing to hear on a daily basis, even when you, yourself, are starting to believe that you should simply be doing more sit-ups and the ultrasound was simply a rather endearing picture of your last ice-cream sundae.

What's more, Small Belly was a much better bedfellow than my current Medium-Sized Belly. Small Belly would allow me to sleep on my back occasionally, or switch from left side to right side without having to practically get out of bed. Medium-Sized Belly will allow no such conveniences.

Around week 31, I gave up. Fine, Baby. You win. If you're not going to give me a decent-sized pregnant belly, let's just go back to the way I was. I'd like to wear my old clothes now, anyway.

I was also starting to realize at this point that what is in must come out: a concept that did wonders for my jealousy of those who nicely fill out their maternity clothes.

But Baby had other things in mind. I grew a belly! Now, we go everywhere together. Don't tell Medium-Sized Belly, but Small Belly was actually better company.

I'm definitely discovering some disadvantages of toting Belly around. The other day at McDonald's we had an inch of clearance between the table and the booth. By the time I'd finished my ice-cream cone, we were down to half an inch.

And then there's the fact that I'm so off-balance that getting up out of a seat practically requires a helicopter lift nowadays.

Nevertheless, the day I turned 34 weeks (as a frame of reference, there are about 40 weeks in a typical pregnancy) I was extremely thrilled and flattered when Belly was first noticed by a stranger. It happened again a couple days later, and I found myself finally able to take it for granted that I look pregnant. I no longer feel out of place at Babies R Us, as if I should be shopping from someone else's registry instead of my own.

And yet, I'm still not big enough (see previous post). How much more will I grow? And if I'm relatively uncomfortable now, how much worse is it going to get?

But what happens if I never get a truly large belly? At the end of this week I'll be considered full term, and could deliver any time (although it'll probably be a few weeks to a month yet). Would they turn me away from Labor and Delivery if I simply didn't look big enough? Tell me to lay off the ice cream and quit complaining about excruciating "indigestion?" What a weird problem to have.

Doctor visit!

The big news at today's appointment is that I'm going to get another ultrasound at my next appointment. I'm still trying to figure out how I feel about this. Basically, everything is most likely absolutely fine--the doctor is only prescribing this as a precaution. I'm measuring 4 weeks behind (a bit of a relief to me, personally, after last week's 5-weeks-behind measurement) and they want to check Baby's weight and the level of amniotic fluid to make sure both are on track. Once again, I'm probably measuring small for one or more of the following perfectly harmless reasons:
1.) I'm relatively small
2.) The baby's relatively small (but not dangerously so)
3.) The baby's position
4.) How I'm carrying

Nevertheless, I'm definitely freaking out until the ultrasound is over and we find out that everything's truly okay. Of course, I'm excited to see Baby Girl again and to learn how much she might weigh (ultrasounds aren't really very accurate in determining fetal weight), but I'd give it up in a second to be measuring perfectly and not have the slight chance that something is wrong.

I'll probably bring a packed hospital bag with me: my ultrasound appointment, which they haven't scheduled yet, should be about the time I'm becoming full term, so if there's a significant problem they probably wouldn't hesitate to deliver her, or at least send me to the hospital. Probably just my mind overreacting to the situation, but do I have any choice but to overreact?

On a shallower note, this will probably give us a chance to double-check and make sure Baby's a girl. We're quite sure that she is, but as long as everything else is okay, it'd be nice to confirm that she'll be more comfortable among lambs and bunnies than horses and tractors.

The rest of the visit went fine. I was thrilled to see I only gained 1 pound, despite 2 baby showers. I added it to my monstrous gain from my last appointment and happily averaged it out to 2 pounds/week for 3 weeks. Not nearly as bad!

Hopefully next week, or early in the week after, I'll be able to post another picture of happy, healthy Baby Girl!

An interview with Baby

We wanted to get to know Baby a little better since we'll be meeting her in a few short (and getting shorter!) weeks, so we sent a few questions her way. Our conversation went something like this:

Q: So, baby, first of all, do you feel ready to be born?
A: I really think I am. Not that this hasn't been great, but I'm ready for a little more freedom. I want to do my own thing for a little while. I'm still working a little bit on development--lungs and brain and such--but otherwise I'm pretty much ready to go physically, and I know I'm already there mentally.

Q: How do you anticipate spending your first weeks of freedom?
A: I anticipate sleeping a lot--not during the night, of course--and probably some burping. I'd also like to travel.

Q: What are your personal goals?
A: To be the perfect child, of course! Haha, in all seriousness, my first goal is to take over the house. Then I'll shoot for the world.

Q: You may be aware by now that your dad plans to take you fishing every chance he gets. How do you feel about this?
A: As long as Mommy buys me a cute fishing outfit, I'm okay with it. I've never fished before, but I'm looking forward to giving it a try, and I hear Daddy's pretty fun to hang out with. I will say that if he plans to stay out any longer than an hour or two, he'd better bring some chocolate along.

Q: How do you think you'll get along with the cats?
A: I think we'll do alright. I can see some profitable partnerships, and I've actually already been talking with them about food sharing. Until I'm better coordinated, I imagine I'll be dropping a lot of food--which I have no problem with them cleaning up. However, they'd better return the favor, seeing as they can jump on the counter and nose their way into any baked goods left out (not that they're allowed to), and I won't be able to reach them for quite some time.

Q: What do you anticipate your first word will be?
A: Considering I'll be spending so much time with Mommy, I'm thinking it will be some variation of "chocolate."

Q: What do you want to be when you grow up?
A: A scientific writer.

Q: What's your favorite animal?
A: There's been a new species discovered called the Panda Snake. It's a snake, but soft and fuzzy with big ears and a cute face. That's my favorite.

Q: Whose nose do you have?
A: Actually, I'm really not sure. It's a lot cuter and less crooked than Mommy's, and not quite as Norwegian as Daddy's. It's pretty much the cutest nose in the family.

Q: What's your favorite food?
A: Chocolate-dipped steak.

Baby Girl nodded off at this point, but she promised she'd make herself available for another interview later, should we have any more questions.