I have some good news!
James fixed the van so I was gone all day.
Well that was good news, but not the good news. I was at the OB's office. Waiting for TWO HOURS before he showed up. He's a great doctor, but I get sick of waiting for him. If I wasn't high risk I would choose someone who was faster. Thank goodness for my sister who watched the kids at her house. They would have destroyed the office by the first hour, or at the least imploded my brain with super-sonic whining. I spent a total of four hours there. Blech.
Sorry, that wasn't the good news
Today was my yucky first OB appointment where you get to model a fashionable hospital gown that closes (or almost) in front. I don't need to explain further. I still feel violated.
That wasn't the good news either.
It's this: They did an ultrasound and there's a heartbeat! So for now, everything is looking ok and I'm finally allowing myself to get excited about this baby.
While I was waiting to see the doctor, I talked to people. It's neat when you're in a waiting room with expectant mothers. Some glance around furtively and when you catch their eye, whip their heads away so fast they need a neck brace. Others will not only tell you anything you're curious about, but everything you don't want to know as well.
Thankfully, I had interesting people to talk to. One poor girl was there with her three-year-old son, who was going nuts. Other people and I kept reassuring her that we understood, because she looked both helpless and embarrassed. She was there to see if she could have another child. I think she has three. Or maybe she was there seeing what her options were for not having more. She was trying to talk to me when I was being distracted with the receptionist wanting me to fill out paperwork. Watching the girl with her son was making me try to remember why I'm doing this again.
Another girl I met lives with her parents during the week because her husband works out of town. Her mom came there with her, as she's on bedrest and having twins. Someone was actually at her house at that moment, an art teacher, getting the nursery ready for her. Wow. I was just thankful that no one was home at my house, destroying it any further.
Not long after she went in I finally got into my appointment, and the only thing I had written down for allergies were "sweat bees". If you don't know what a sweat bee is, they're these little tiny black and yellow bees. They look like baby bees. In some areas of the country they're kind of metallic-looking. Anyway, the nurse misread and stated that I was allergic to "swear bees". We both got a laugh out of that. "Well, I am," I insisted.
Then, when I was waiting for my ultrasound, this other gal and her husband came and sat next to me. She had just found out she was pregnant. She has a 19 year old son and a 7 year old girl. I think she had her tubes tied, anyway this one was a huge surprise. We have the same doctor. It was nearing 2:00 by this time and I told her I had been there since 11:30. I think at some time in her life she must have been a sailor because she was rather colorful. Her reaction was (and sorry for typing this, but...) "F*** THAT!"
I was slightly shocked, so I hastily replied "No, not really." I paused. "But this is the end result."
She lost it, laughing so loudly that I think her husband was embarrassed. What else could I do? It used to be that I would just recoil inwardly when someone swore horribly in casual conversation, but my inner rebel has started saying things of its own accord. Maybe I should have told her I was allergic to swear bees. I really liked her personality, swearing and all. When I came out of the ultrasound she was still there, and looking for my reaction. I gave her a thumbs-up and she just beamed and yelled across the crowded waiting room, "Good luck!"
Of course, my kids were excited to see the ultrasound pictures when I got to Karen's house. It must have been a little disappointing. ("Look! You have a smudge for a brother or sister!") Maybe a tiny tadpole, but I won't say that because frogs freak me out. It looks like nothing, really. It's the size of a blueberry though, so that's to be expected. It's good that I looked up about how big it is, because the clinician wouldn't give me a good idea. All she would say was how many millimeters or centimeters. She gave in a little and put it in inches (less than 1/2 inch). She said, "I don't do objects. No oranges, no olives. One person's orange might be bigger than another's."
"What about kiwi fruit?" I surmised. "Those are pretty uniform."
"No kiwis either".
"So it's just...go home and get a ruler."
Tonight I gave Princess a bath and asked her what she thought the baby's name should be. Of course, she thinks it's a girl.
"Princess Isabella?" I asked. (Not seriously, not with Bella fanaticism raging rampantly across the nation.)
She loved it. I threw out another random name.
"How about Rachel?"
First she shook her head no, then she looked up at me and said "Deuce".
"What if it's a boy?"
She pondered this for a moment. "Kid Boy."
She's original. Maybe she's like Professor. When I was expecting Princess, we were riding in the van one day. He was four. Out of the blue, he said "We should name it Hebrews. Or the letter 'E'."
Her nickname before we found out she was a girl was Hebrews. Maybe this one should be Ephesians. I like Colossians, but it reminds me of colons. Not pleasant when you're thinking of a new baby.
Speaking of colons, I have to leave this new tidbit for you. Or more specifically, for Nancy Face. I think she'll appreciate it.
I was snuggled up in my bed tonight, reading. Suddenly the wails of Princess filled the air.
I tried to ignore them, hoping she had just temporarily misplaced one of the three stuffed doggies or two baby dolls she sleeps with.
It didn't stop.
I got up and opened her door. She was standing up on her bed in her favorite pink nightgown with big white polka dots. "What's the matter?"
"I pooped in my undaweah."
"You pooped? No honey, you barfed." For that's what it looked like. Alas, I was wrong. As I studied her, I realized how horribly wrong I had been. Although, does it really matter which one it was? Icky, icky, ew, ew, ew.
I carried her to the bathtub, my arms extended as far out as I could without dropping her. I'll spare you the details because I would love for you to come back to my blog again. Let's just say that I was having a difficult time breathing. I love bathtubs, and running water, and a plunger that works in the bathtub as well as it does in the toilet.
My knight in shining armor came to the rescue when it came to changing her bed. Even glancing in her room almost became my undoing. "Stay away," he told me firmly. "Don't even look at it." This from a man who gags at the slightest smell of wretchedness. He can't even change an infant's poopy diapers until they eat only solid food. (Hey, that's fine with me! He can have all those!) He didn't want me to get sick, because I had taken insulin and had just eaten a snack. Insulin+ an empty stomach= bad.
So he took a mask, a doctor's type mask, and sprayed some cologne on it before welding it to his face. He then proceeded to change the bedding and put everything in the washing machine.
How I love that man.
And that, my friends, is another day in the life of me.