Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me

Last Friday I got off of work a little early (don’t worry, coworkers who sometimes read, I worked late the night before…in a meeting with an auditor, so that time should probably count for more like time and a half, but rest assured, I didn’t short the company. It’s getting plenty of time out of my brain and soul) so that Jud and I could go visit the baby doctor who pokes at my stomach with strange jelly topped sticks. My blood pressure was a rockin 100/70 (eat that high blood pressure! Now please, pass the salt).

To date, I’d gained 12 pounds of baby juice and flesh (I found this number alarming at first. Twelve? As in a two with a one in front? That’s a lot of weight!! Then I told Jud and he was all high fives with “Yeah!” and “Nice work” so I didn’t feel quite as bad about it but it still seems like too much. This second trimester sure is packing the pounds on me). Everything else looked normal and fine too, so then the nurse took us into a room.

I’d been hoping that we’d get another ultrasound because I knew that the baby had grown enough for us to check out his/her goods and know what color to lean toward when making purchases for things like sheets and clothes and the like. When we got into our room, I knew it was not to be. The ultrasound machine was in the room next door and we were sitting in the room with the odd little chair that Jud doesn’t like. I was pretty bummed out and for a second or two tried to convince our doctor that he should do one anyway, but he wasn’t moved (guessing he’s heard that song and dance before).

At church on Sunday some women were asking me about the appointment and I told them about it and how I was disappointed, but could wait four more weeks if I had to, when one of the women said “I’ll do one for you. Come by my clinic on Tuesday evening and we’ll take a look.”

Joy beyond joy! We are finding out tonight! (Right after my company Christmas party…which is being held at a BAR. I’m just putting in my face (grabbing a few bar treats…you know, like WINGS or FRIED CHEESE or some other fried thing that I would not ordinarily purchase for myself, but since it’s my company’s holiday present to me, I might as well (can you say thirteen pounds? As in a one and then a three?). Anyway, I’m hoping not to smell too much like smoke when I walk into the clinic. The boozy smell? Of course. Babies love booze. But cigarettes? That’s preposterous.)