An excuse to chow

As it turns out, faithful readers, I have discovered the key to getting rid of my nausea. Eat. Eat! EAT! Eat, and the hurly feeling goes away. But I can't eat just anything: it has to be protein or sugar.

And our test results are in. Everything looks normal. And in this case, plain old normal is just plain wonderful.

Sorry -- gotta go. Hungry.

Hysteriosis

Apparently, I cannot be trusted with a worry-free pregnancy. Even though everything was fine on Wednesday, I am determined to obsess about possible contaminates, inordinate vomiting, and the general state of the world. Last night, Scholar and I went to a hamburger joint. I had a burger and some delicious fries, which I supplemented with blue cheese dressing. This is a favorite combination of mine. I haven't had it in forever, because I read in one of my pregnancy books that soft cheeses, like brie and bleu, can carry a bacteria called listeria (hey -- doesn't that sound like a children's book). Last night, I broke down and had a small cupful of dressing. I even asked at the front counter if the dressing was pasteurized. I found out that it was a commercial salad dressing, Ken's, but the ingredient label didn't say if it was pasteurized or not.

I chanced it. I know it was irresponsible, but damn! Those fries were good. I kept thinking, "It's a commercial salad dressing. It's not homemade. What are the chances that it's even real bleu cheese, for god's sake?"

I am a terrible mother.

Anyway, we also went to an ice cream place and had frozen custard. And when I came home about an hour later, I literally puked up my toenails. It was mostly frozen custard, seasoned with bits of hamburger (aren't you glad you read my blog?). But afterward, I felt much better.

This morning, I came down and watched some Discovery Channel. Very first thing on was a story about a mother who lost a baby at 4 months because of listeria.

Oh. Great.

Of course, it's more likely that I engaged in chunk propulsion because I ate too much fast food. But that would be rational thinking, folks -- a subject at which I have never excelled. I'm much more likely to jump to the worst possible conclusion.

I am not so much Wonder Woman as Worry Wart.

Hospital Antics

Well, we had our genetic counseling appointment yesterday, and what a crazy scene. Seriously, it was like a vaudeville act. Scholar got up late, which necessitated some callous speeding through the small towns and hamlets and into the city. Naturally, we ran into (no, not literally) a road closed due to construction. The irony was that I knew this road was closed, but my brain chose to ignore that memory until about 5 seconds before I hit (no, not literally) the telltale orange cones. So we detoured.

You must understand detours in my city. I have lived here almost all my life, but there are some areas in which I have yet to venture off the beaten path. In other words, if it ain't on the main strip, I probably haven't been there. Now this hospital to which we were traveling is a MAJOR hospital, and sadly, I have spent a lot of time in the ER there, counseling crime victims. You would think I could drive there in my sleep -- because I already have, several times. But in fact, I can only drive that main strip with my eyes closed. And this time, if I had closed my eyes and continued driving, I would have hit some nice young man in a hard hat -- and where would his family be?

The detour took us away from civilization and into farm country. I had no idea how to reroute us, so I just followed all the other cars and prayed like hell they were going to the hospital, too. A couple were going to McDonald's, but I actually could tell the difference. We arrived at the hospital almost exactly ten minutes late.

Not bad, right? Ten minutes -- that's nothing. We parked the car; we headed to the elevators. We got off at the wrong floor. I had a mini-tantrum (oh, just for effect, people. Just for laughs). We headed into the hospital, and two automatic doors started closing. I admit it: I panicked. I ran through them like I was Indiana Jones diving underneath a swiftly falling stone wall. Scholar was laughing so hard that he had tears in his eyes, because did I really think they were going to close on me? They're automatic doors in a HOSPITAL, for goodness' sake.

By the time we got into the actual lobby, I was in a dangerously goofy mood. I love it when we get like that. I never doubt that we belong together: we're just too weird for anyone else.

So we headed up the elevators to the third floor. That would make sense, right? The room number was in the 3000s, and the first floor had rooms like 1003 and 1007. You would make the logical assumption that 3222 was on the third floor, wouldn't you?

You'd be wrong. You'd be wrong because I have suddenly developed dyslexia, and I can't be trusted with numbers (not that I ever could). As we wandered around the floor, I got the distinct impression that we were in the WRONG place. Maybe it was the names of the departments that clued me in: otolaryngologist, for example. Director of Teaching Hospital.

If we hadn't found the green elevators again, we might still be there, wandering aimlessly through the halls, calling "Genetics? Genetics?"

When we finally got to the proper room (which, oddly enough, was in NO WAY 3222) we were twenty-five minutes late. We were lucky: they agreed to see us. We went over family histories, and the counselor said she saw nothing that concerned her except my Advanced Maternal Age. And then she dropped the bombshell -- apparently, we had been scheduled for an ultrasound this very morning.

It was like the prize in the center of the labyrinth. We were going to get to see the Guppy! So we headed down to the next set of tunnels, successfully navigated our way to the appropriate department, and within 30 minutes, I was up on a table with my garments around my hips.

The tech was wonderful. She actually warmed the jelly, which I have started to realize is an anamoly in the world of sonogramming. And then she wielded her tool like an expert (shut up, Potts) and lo! The Guppy appeared.

Except it is not a Guppy anymore. It is a baby. With a head, and arms, and legs, and all sorts of delicious parts. A real, live human being. A beautiful, beautiful child.

Ours. All ours.

Scholar could not stop looking at the screen. He was smiling so much, I thought his cheeks might crack. And the baby was bopping away, moving its head and its arms so rhythmically that I could have sworn I saw headphones on its earbuds. What was it listening to? Scholar has been playing an abudance of Pet Shop Boys, which makes me fearful of baby corruption. I hope our kid wasn't dancing to "West End Girls." That WILL NOT be allowed. Duran Duran is one thing, but effeminate techno music is something else entirely (not that there's anything inherently wrong with it. It should just be introduced slowly). I will have to counter this indoctorination with some ass-kicking Aerosmith. Assuming I can find some.

Anyway, we saw our child. The tech spent a long time with each shot, letting us drink in the sights, letting us giggle and coo and act like idiots. I'm sure she thought we were giddy with the prospect of being new parents. How could she have known that we act like idiots 24-7?

She measured the neck, and told us right away that everything looked normal. She left to fill out some paperwork, and during her absence, Scholar and I discussed the beauty that is our child. Oh, other children are beautiful -- we even know some ourselves -- but none can compare to the angelic loveliness that is THIS child. And there is no way -- oh, I'm sorry. I meant to write that "there is NO WAY" we are doing a single thing to jeopardize its life. So we have both agreed: no amnio. Regardless of the test results, no amnio.

That's a relief, by the way.

The vaudeville show continued as we left that department and went to get blood drawn. Problem was, the jokes were suddenly on me. I had a trainee phlebotomist, who cut off circulation in both arms, complained about my difficult veins, and poked me about six times in the wrong places and at the wrong angles before her supervisor stepped in. I've never felt close to fainting when having blood drawn, but the room was starting to spin. I was so grateful when the supervisor said, "Oh, never mind. I'll do it."

And then we went out to lunch. With pictures. Of our baby. Whom I love.

Such a beautiful day.

Is the ticker annoying?

Be honest now.

I kind of like it. I think the bright graphics enliven my blog, and I feel pretty proud that I found a way to keep track of my timeline without actually having to buy a calendar or count. Don't want to strain myself, right?

There were plenty of options from which to choose. A veritable plethora of baby-tickers. You could have a baby in a car, a baby climbing a mountain, or a stork flying closer and closer to a trim, white farmhouse. I chose the ticker without the baby, because hey! I like to keep a little of the mystery. We know there is a white sailboat approaching a pier called "Babyland," but -- and this is the lynchpin, folks -- what is the sailboat really carrying? It could be a baby (boy or girl). It could be refugees from some foreign country. It could be illicit drugs, or smuggled ammo, or something. It could be reanimated zombies from Monster Island.

You just don't know, do you? Makes the heart on the sailboat a little more ominous, doesn't it? Suddenly, you're thinking that maybe the heart doesn't represent cute baby love. MAYBE IT'S WHAT THEY WANT FOR DINNER...

Yeah, maybe you're thinking that. Or maybe you're thinking that I have an abundantly fertile imagination and way too much time on my hands. You are so right.

But do you like my ticker?

And the beat goes on.

I messed up in saying that we had an appointment yesterday. It was actually today. We went, and after much jelly and wanding of the belly, we got our reward. A heartbeat, fast and furious. To me, it kind of sounded like the Jon Bonham backbeat to Led Zeppelin's "The Immigrant Song" (Come from the land of the ice and snow...Hammer of the Gods).

But I digress.

I am struck now by the reality of this situation. There is a baby. INSIDE OF ME, PEOPLE, INSIDE OF ME!!!! There is a person feeding off me, attached to me, LISTENING TO EVERY WORD I SAY.

Doesn't anyone else find this freaky?

I guess it's wigging me out because I don't picture the bean as a...well, as a bean. I picture him/her as a full-grown person. I don't know why, and I know it doesn't make any sense. But I have a 6-month reprieve from logic, so just go with it.

Anyway, we have a healthy heartbeat, and the uterus is doing just what it's supposed to. There is some concern about a fibroid tumor, which I will promptly Google after I'm done here, just so I can be sufficiently terrified. It may result in some problems when the baby gets ready to vacate the Trants hotel, but why worry? He/she can always pop out of my stomach, a la Alien. And then do a soft-shoe across the table, a la Space Balls.

Do I watch too many movies or what?

Post Mother's Day Post

Happy belated Mother's Day to the Blogosphere at large.

Today we have our monthly doc appointment to check the developments of the little creature in my womb. I'm keeping my fingers crossed that we will be able to hear the heartbeat. My belly is morphing into some sort of canopy tent. It feels weird to lie on my stomach, or to have the cat walk up my stomach to nuzzle my chin (he's such a cute cat). I have a feeling that my days of sleeping in any other position but on my side are sorely numbered.

Not that I care. I would sleep upside down in my closet like a bat if I knew we'd get a healthy baby out of it.

Which brings us to the subject of testing. Scholar and I have yet to look over all the lovely handouts our nurse gave us. And there are so many fun tests we could do: CVS, amnio, CF, Triple Screen, BIG MAC (oh...my mistake). All of them carry a certain amount of risk. Risk one: the invasive procedure results in a miscarriage. Risk two: the invasive procedure results in some profoundly scary finding, necessitating the type of decision that makes me want to vomit.

Is it any wonder I am reluctant to even take the tests? I mean, ignorance is bliss, right? But Scholar and I will talk this over and make our decision together. He's of the mind that the tests will tell us if there are any problems, and then we deal with them from there.

I take comfort in the fact that I have ALWAYS tested well. SATs, LAST, ATS-W, CSTs...I aced them all. Past performance is a likely indicator of future performance, right? Right?

And I also know that this is not the last time I will worry for the health and well-being of my child. After all, what greeted me this morning on the YAHOO news banner? Oh, a little story about an 18-month old girl getting her HAND CUT OFF in a chocolate factory.