Thursday, January 12, 2012

Your first snow day!

Things continue to be uneventful at Dr. Fuckhead's Tedious Carnival of Madness during my notably later appointment times. Yesterday afternoon, the most exciting and noteworthy people I observed were a couple who were both massively obese (and I'm talking three hundred and fifty pounds plus, if not more) whose crappy old cell phone kept making obnoxious chirping and beeping noises when they weren't being used to make outrageously loud personal phone calls. (Seriously: this dude was virtually screaming into his phone about prices for something being "bullshit," how the caller was trying to ruin his life, and other choice gems like those. Whee.) There was a woman tapping her long fake nails irritatingly against some plastic thing she was holding on to, but other than her, the next most entertaining folks were sitting quietly in stereotypical middle-class polite silence while they watched "The Dr. Oz Show," which, incidentally, makes me want to vomit. Nothing crazy, nothing too exciting, and nothing that made me go "holy crap, am I ever lucky to be me and not them." With only two scheduled ultrasounds remaining after this one, I can't help but be slightly disappointed.

I had my now-normal twenty minute wait before going in with one of the ultrasound techs who I've had really pleasant appointments with before. She's young-ish, maybe about my age, and jokes around with you about not being in a good position, which I very much appreciate since most of the other techs seem to think it's somehow my fault when you have your face nestled into, say, my pubic bone. (I mean, where else would I want my baby's face? C'mon!) After doing all the normal measurements and checks, and determining that everything looked just ducky, I shared with her my recently-acquired irrational fear that you will be funny looking.

I am embarrassed to admit it, Batman, but there have been a few things that have become utterly, stupidly, and frankly humorously preoccupying to me in the last month or so. I had something like two weeks of panic - and I'm talking the deeply-seeded, quiet sort of panic that persistently gnaws at your soul, not an immediate "holy shit, I'm on fire!" kind of panic - over the possibility of me not already owning nursing bras and tank tops. I eventually managed to drag your good-natured and accommodating Aunt Katie out to get a few bras, soothing myself at least temporarily. After resolving THAT issue, I started to freak out over not owning enough socks and tiny hats for you. That's right. I was waking up in the middle of the night freaking out over not owning clothing for you that is not only debatably not especially necessary, given how much other stuff you'll be bundled up in, but of which we already had any. Your Dad humored me with a shopping trip to grab those (and a really good thermometer, which I hadn't even realized I was going to panic about not having until I contemplated walking away from the aisle of medical stuff at Babies 'R Us without one), and now I'm just left with a subtle, obnoxious worry about nursing tank tops, which I am hesitant to buy without knowing what size I'll be after you're on the outside.

The new panic - a truly ridiculous one, I hope, given that neither your Dad nor I were funny-looking babies, nor are we funny-looking people (I think) - has been that you will come out weird looking. We know your heart is pretty messed up, but otherwise your growth has been fine, all your other body parts are where they should be and are in proportion to one another, and there have been no indicators that anything else is wrong with you. The few ultrasound images we'd previously seen of your face, however, are...funky. Granted, at twenty-something weeks of development, even the most gorgeous babies probably look a little like a Roswell alien...or Mr. Burns (as your Dad observed of one profile shot) it was impossible to tell if anything was actually amiss. This compassionate sonographer yesterday was kind enough to humor my paranoia and fairly literally dig around in my lower abdomen to get a good shot of your face, despite you being pretty deeply nestled.

...and you know what? You're friggin' adorable! We got a handful of 3-D shots, and not only am I fairly sure you have your Dad's nose, but you have the cutest little mouth, pudgy, squishable little cheeks, and NOTHING is disproportionate or funky! Check that paranoid fear off the list. On a not-so-awesome note, my ongoing undercurrent of fear that I haven't been drinking nearly enough has been justified. My amniotic fluid levels are as low as the doctors will accept without popping me into the hospital, which means I need to just drink more (which sadly makes me really nauseous) and try to stay off my feet as much as possible. Oh rats.

These new directions couldn't possibly have been better timed, however, since we just got our first real snowstorm of the year, and with it, your very first snow day! Ah, Batman, you will learn to love and cherish the snow day. Few things are more glorious and lovely than waking up at five-something in the morning, rolling over, discovering that you are being told by your school not to show up that day, then rolling back over to go back to sleep. So, today, instead of dragging my sorry, puffy ass out of bed at 5:20AM and hauling myself forty-five minutes north to be mostly uncomfortable all day, I get to sit around with my feet up, eat yummy breakfast, and watch pretty snow. You seem pretty content, too, what with all the hiccuping and kicking you've been up to. I've got a doctor's appointment this afternoon (gee, really?), but other than that, I think your Dad and I need to do one of our trademark food + movie themed marathons and really take advantage of this complete lack of responsibilities today for anything other than our own comfort and happiness.

(Did I mention how glad I am that you're cute, and not funny-looking? I think I need another pancake...)

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