The best news first: the sonographer pronounced me to be 13 weeks pregnant instead of 12!
Me at thirteen weeks:
It’s like Christmas, my birthday, and Chanukah rolled up in one. Pregnancy weeks go by soooooooooooooooooooooooooo sloooooooooooooooooooooooowly—to have one vanish entirely is more than more than a nauseous, barfing girl could ever hope for. As hard as those last weeks of a pregnancy are—especially for those of us with latecomer babies—barfy first trimesters are the worst. And mine might only last a few more days. Praise Whomever-Is-in-Charge-of-These Things.
Other good news:
- The baby-in-the-making is alive! Heartbeat, kicky legs, and a power-to-the-people fist salute, which I already know will be his (or her) trademark greeting for life.
- The baby-in-the-making appears healthy, with all extremities intact.
- The baby-in-the-making photographs well, fist salute and all.
- The baby-in-the-making is moderately compliant, eventually switching positions when asked nicely (a few times) by the sonographer.
- My OB is still my favorite doctor in the world—other than my husband, of course.
The ultrasound experience was, contrary to expectation, even more fun with this pregnancy than the last one, because I’m no longer a nervous wreck every time I set foot inside a medical complex. Sure, I get twitchy when I see anyone sick or debilitated-looking in the hallway or elevator, but I’m able to calm myself much faster than before and get on with things. They’re not in actual pain—they’re just practicing that look for Halloween!
With the fear of the unknown removed from the equation, I was able to just lie back and enjoy the belly massage as the technician searched a little harder for my clearly extant ovaries—which she did eventually find, and which I was far less interested in looking at than my little protest-baby-in-the-making. He (or she) is the 99%.