Hi there!

And it’s either a boy or a girl. We’re certain that it’s definitely one of those.

But we made it through the ultrasound three months ago (THREE MONTHS AGO!!??) without discovering which.

. . . → Read More: It’s a . . .]]> . . . chromosomally typical, thumb-sucking, peekaboo-playing baby.

Hi there!

And it’s either a boy or a girl. We’re certain that it’s definitely one of those.

But we made it through the ultrasound three months ago (THREE MONTHS AGO!!??) without discovering which.

And since then we’ve made it through three months worth of doctor appointments without anyone telling us.

And now I’m annoying you three months later with a post title suggesting I’m going to reveal an answer to a question for which I haven’t been given the answer.

Sorry about that. Take what comfort you can in knowing that I annoy myself, too. And that I am now waddling.

My gift to you is the knowledge that I am waddling. And that sneezing is fraught with danger. So in those respects, you are way better off than I am right now.

But on the other hand, I haven’t had to shave my legs but maybe 4 times since early March because in the most bizarre of pregnancy side effects, the ol’ leg hair up and quit growing. Bizarre. Gloriously, fantastically bizarre. And I’m just going to leave it at that before I annoy you to the point of calling our whole thing here off, for good and for ever.

Anyway.

The more-important-than-sex-of-the-baby information we’ve obtained in recent months was from a relatively new (year-old?) blood test called MaterniT21 that is offered in limited circumstances as a noninvasive alternative to amniocentesis.

I opted out of the first trimester NT ultrasound and blood screenings that are available. That set of screenings yields results in percentages/probabilities of potential chromosomal a/typicalities, such as 1:50 chance that baby has a trisomy such as Down Syndrome. Or 1:4,500 chance. Or anywhere outside, inside, or alongside those numbers.

I’m familiar with the numbers game that is beta hCG testing.  I knew that whatever the results of an NT screening, I would worry. I’m already in the small percentage of women who have repeated pregnancy losses. We’ve had a trisomal loss. I don’t like pregnancy-related odds. If it was a 1:32 chance of chromosomal atypicality, I would worry. If it was a 1:6,000 chance, I would worry. Best not to even obtain that kind of information.

But then my OB offered up that because I would be over 35 at delivery and because I have had a prior chromosomal loss, I meet two of the criteria to qualify for the MaterniT21 (which yields results in a yes/no manner, not probabilities). I’m a winner! Because I’m a loser! Wahoo! Wait . . . not wahoo. Just . . . hoooooo.

I had the labwork for the test drawn on February 7th; the results came back on February 19th. That was a long twelve days that ended, as have so many of the waiting periods of this pregnancy, with me sliding down the kitchen cabinets to sit in a heap of relief and thankful tears on my kitchen floor.

I pace the kitchen floor during results phone calls. It’s a good reception area for my cell phone. And a good pacing area, what with the island that creates both a natural track and a resting point when I become too nervous to pace. And a good slide-down-cabinets-in-relief area.

The MaterniT21 results were negative for Trisomy 13, 18, and 21, and concluded that the baby is chromosomally typical. Typical!

“Typical” is not a word that could be extended to any of the pregnancies between Sophie Belle and now.

“Typical” was cause for much relief.

Not that I didn’t still hold my breath during the anatomy ultrasound that followed a few days later. There were several times during that exam that I had to remind myself to breathe, to relax the grip my hands had on the dress scrunched up above my belly.

Chambers! Count the chambers of the heart! Say there are four! my mind pleaded.

There were.

The brain! Check the brain! Does it look normal? ran the loop in my head.

It did.

Fingers and toes and liver and kidneys and bladder and lungs and spine and arms and legs and placental placement and umbilical cord veins and cervical length and WHAT AM I FORGETTING?!!? went the monologue.

All looked perfectly normal, we were told.

And then I exhaled.

*    *     *     *     *

I haven’t written much about this pregnancy.  I haven’t written much in months past, period.

I suppose it’s because of that lingering fear that the bottom could drop out at any moment.  It has taken me some time to become comfortable with results and indications that everything is okay.

Kind of ridiculous. Kind of not.

I take in the information, let it settle in my subconscious, but don’t want to be so arrogant as to assume that indications of okayness are the same as okayness.

Seriously, James did a real number on me with the whole:

Nope. I don’t know what will happen tomorrow, James. I definitely don’t.

All I know for sure is that for the third time today I can feel the hiccups of a little life growing within.

Other than that, I am just a mist.

*     *     *     *     *

As the months have worn on, the fears and anxieties have receded.

We have turned one room into a nursery (photos soon).

We have unpacked the boxes and boxes and boxes of baby gear saved from Way Back When We Didn’t Know Babies Don’t Need This Much Stuff.  Holy consumerism overload. And everything still works. Amazing.

Some friends loaned me even more boxes and boxes and boxes of maternity clothes and hallelujah I am now optimistic that I’ll make it to July without an acute case of wardrobe misery. Well, except for any occasion requiring maternity swimwear — that will still invoke the misery. But swimwear has almost always invoked a certain degree of misery for me, so . . . yeah, this year isn’t THAT different. Except that my OB warned me to be careful as pregnant women often sunburn more easily. Which I think, given my pre-pregnancy paleness, means that I’ll need to SPF-infinity myself before I even roll out of bed in the darkness of morning. So that makes this year a *little* bit different. (And it’s definitely a ‘roll’ out of bed in the morning situation at this point.)

Another precious friend brought me her hardly-even-barely-used, awesomely-neutral-colored infant car seat. And *POOF* was gone my unjumpable hurdle of purchasing an infant seat I was so afraid would end up a pristine, empty, unreturnable reminder of what wasn’t to be. She’d bought that car seat after her youngest son was born . . . the loss of the son before him and then wading through an abyss of pregnancy scariness had left her unable to jump that purchase hurdle during her last pregnancy. So after her youngest was born, when he was ready to leave the hospital, then she bought the seat. I don’t know how to articulate what it is about the car seat that seems so presumptuous. All I can tell you is that it is one of my life’s greatest blessings to have friends whose complete understanding is independent of my (in)articulateness.

In the last few weeks, I’ve even found a plain, simple, unspeakably soft, white newborn gown. So, baby will have something to wear home. And won’t have to be embarrassed about being incorrectly pinked or blued or excessively ducked. (Oh, by the way: ‘gender-neutral newborn clothing’ is apparently commercially interpreted as All Things Yellow Ducky. I have developed a theory that this yellowfication is Big Baby Fashion’s subversive attempt to push me into getting the boy/girl info earlier so that I can join the ranks of the overspenders in the mostly-pink or largely-blue departments. Pretty clever of them, applying the pressure through friendly-looking yellow duckies. Not as clever as would have been using something that gives me the heebie-jeebs, like designing all ‘neutral’ clothing with little flour bugs on it (I’d have called the doctor’s office from the clothing department), but a good effort. You’re not going to break me with the ducks though, Big Baby Fashion!)

Which leaves us with all of about 10 or 12 things we will ‘need’ before July. Which is awesome.

Which has freed me up for focusing on the dwindling time we have left to enjoy Hi Five! in all her soloness.

Which free time has been filled with things like movies and naps and mani/pedis and naps and Sea World and random adventures with The MotherSuch. And naps.

And finding one of last month’s bluebonnet patches.

And telling her “you know, I kinda think this baby might be a boy . . . “

Before telling her “. . . or a baby girl.”

She appears to have a preference.

Or so we have concluded after months of her adamantly telling us (and anyone else who asks her thoughts on the matter) that this is her baby SISTER we’re expecting. And that her baby SISTER should be named Bluebonnet, because that is a “most beautiful name.”

Maybe she’s right. (About the sister thing, not about the name. I might have told her it was illegal to name a baby after the state flower. But that it is not illegal to pick the bluebonnets. And, after consulting with the Texas DPS website, I have confirmed that one of those things is true. I’m good with 50% accuracy on this one.)

But maybe she’s right.

We’ll know in a little less than

. . . eight weeks.

Some things about the last year have been very difficult; some things have been blessedly easy. We, my mom and sister and I, have figured it out as we went . . . → Read More: They Wrote These Things, and then She Wrote This Thing, and then I Wrote This Thing, and THEN THEIR PRESIDENT CALLED (and also — OS:S in the E-T on the 05/05/13)]]> A few days from now marks the one-year anniversary of my Daddy’s glad morning, the one on which he flew away.

Some things about the last year have been very difficult; some things have been blessedly easy. We, my mom and sister and I, have figured it out as we went along.

We miss him every day.

We talk about him often.

He was an incredible husband and father and grandfather.

In many ways, he is still with us, continues to be very real to us.

I see his gestures in my mind, the way he would absent-mindedly play with his fingernails and the way he held his coffee mug; I hear the sound his shoes made across a hard floor; I grin at the memory of his soft chuckle; I feel his presence with us still. I guess because, given any amount of time, that’s what love does: we absorb so much of each other that they become we and we become they, and the boundaries are both clear and blurry so that I know that the sound his shoes made was all his and yet it resonates in my ears so it’s mine, too.

And maybe that doesn’t make any sense.

Unless you still hear the shoes of someone you love, too.

Then it makes perfect sense.

Perfect, happy sense that I’ll stand in the kitchen . . . listening to a sound in my mind . . . and smile.

*     *     *     *     *

A story, one over which I hear my Daddy chuckling:

Last summer, Mom and I methodically settled the affairs of Dad’s estate, making checklists to keep our minds busy and crossing things off as our hands accomplished the goals on our lists.

We wrote letters, sent copies of death certificates, probated the Will, made phone calls — the organization and completion of all of those tasks made so much easier by the experience of having navigated other families through this process when I worked probate cases. So many times last summer I was grateful for an education and a background that allowed me to actually do something for Mom, for Dad. (Because really: after a death, there’s only so much that anyone can do.) Anyway.

We made phone calls.

One of the calls Mom made was to AAA Life Insurance Company, to notify them of Daddy’s passing and cancel an accidental death policy he had with them.

Not too long thereafter, Daddy received a reminder to renew his policy. And then another. And then another.

Until finally in December, my Mother (having a very well-developed sense of humor) wrote them a letter and returned it with the renewal form.

A copy of her letter:

We laughed together over the letter and our imagined response by the representative who would receive it.

We laughed together as we compared the gestures and the laughs that the letter would have elicited from my Daddy.

And then we really laughed when a few months later this arrived in the mail for Dad:

*     *     *

And then, for the Sunday newspaper column (on 05/05/13), I submitted this:

*     *     *

And then, by midday on the Monday after that column ran:

And then I laughed. And then I texted Mom. And then I sent my phone number in a reply email.

And then I pulled out that last coverage offer sent to Daddy.

And then I looked at the preprinted signature on the form:

And then, less than 10 minutes after I replied to his email, my phone rang.

And THEN I was on the receiving end of phone call with Mr. Huffstetler, in which he offered his condolences along with a most courteous and professional apology for the inconvenience of the multiple solicitations, an assurance that the solicitations would cease, and a disclaimer that their marketing mail is prepared 60-70 days in advance of a mailing so if Daddy is to receive another offer in the next few weeks it will only be because it was prepared before he learned of the problem and removed Daddy from the mailing list.

Mr. Huffstetler.

The company President.

Because of a silly little column I’d written, about a silly little letter my mother had written, about a silly number of life insurance offers to a deceased person.

I am left to suppose that, like many other large companies, perhaps AAA regularly monitors its web presence and any mentions of its company, and as a result it came across the column when it was uploaded to the newspaper’s website this weekend.

Which if so, means it may come across this blog post, too.

Which if so, AAA Life Insurance Company: that was an unexpectedly professional and much appreciated response.

And also which if so, Mr. Huffstetler: you’re a pretty cool cat.

And also which if so finally the end, Mr. H: my Daddy would have thought so, too.

She grew.

All the way to FIVE.

I specifically remember asking her not to do that.

Disobedient little scamp.

* * * * *

(From the OS:S in the E-T on the 04/07/13:)

* * * * *

So. Whatever. Fine.

Four is officially o-v-e-r . . .

. . . → Read More: Hi Five! (Au revoir, Four-Why-Oh) — (OS:S in the E-T on the 04/07/13)]]> Well, it happened.

She grew.

All the way to FIVE.

I specifically remember asking her not to do that.

Disobedient little scamp.

*     *     *     *     *

(From the OS:S in the E-T on the 04/07/13:)

*     *     *     *     *

So. Whatever. Fine.

Four is officially o-v-e-r . . .

is forever outta here . . .

is the ‘rockin’ egg.’

Hi Five!

I expect no shortage of smiles, laughter, goofiness, sass, twirling, and kisses from you.

xoxoxoxoxoxo

It’s true.

I mean, it’s rare. Really, really rare.

But true.

And it’s almost always in the middle of the night when it happens.

Which would be great for you not being any wiser,

except for the habit I have of yelling “Hey! Look what a failure . . . → Read More: MotherSuch to the Rescue]]> I am occasionally a less-than-stellar mother.

It’s true.

I mean, it’s rare. Really, really rare.

But true.

And it’s almost always in the middle of the night when it happens.

Which would be great for you not being any wiser,

except for the habit I have of yelling “Hey! Look what a failure I am!” anyway.

That whispered “I understand” was more knife-through-the-heart than any midnight cryfest-slash-tantrum could ever have the hopes of growing up to be one day.

But my MotherSuch?

She’s always at the ready.

I have much yet to learn.

After a nap.

I was a property manager, an advertising preparer, a leasing agent, an attorney.

I was a clothes washer, a toilet cleaner, a duster, a mopper, a shower scrubber.

I was a bookkeeper, a dinner prepper, a preschool . . . → Read More: Motherhood Equivalency for “Spoonful of Sugar”]]> Monday was a Monday:

I was a property manager, an advertising preparer, a leasing agent, an attorney.

I was a clothes washer, a toilet cleaner, a duster, a mopper, a shower scrubber.

I was a bookkeeper, a dinner prepper, a preschool dropper-offer, a runner-non-stopper.

By dusk:

I was a swollen ankler, severe backacher, feeling underappreciated, exhausted heap of doneness.

I was stretched out on the bed when The Four-Why-Oh approached, sing-song style.

“I have a surprise for you . . . and you’re going to looooove it!”

So precious, her excitement at whatever was hidden behind her back lighting up her whole face.

“Love it as much as I love you?”

“You’ll love it even MORE!”

“You know that’s not possible, right?”

“Oh yes it ISSSSSSS! Look!”

She was wrong about how me loving her gift more than the giver.

But she was oh so right about it being exactly what I needed.

Specifically, as of today: 19w3d.

This is the farthest we’ve made it in a pregnancy since The Four-Why-Oh was gestatin’.

Which should bring me a lot of comfort. Excitement even.

And in some ways, it does.

But for the most part, . . . → Read More: What Multiple Losses Do]]> Nineteen weeks.

Specifically, as of today: 19w3d.

This is the farthest we’ve made it in a pregnancy since The Four-Why-Oh was gestatin’.

Which should bring me a lot of comfort. Excitement even.

And in some ways, it does.

But for the most part, excitement is an exotic indulgence that I can only bear to sample in small doses.

And that, sweet friends, is just what multiple losses do.

*     *     *     *     *

Weeks 6 through 12 of this pregnancy were spent as still and horizontal as possible, inching my way through day after day of nausea.

Some people theorize that morning sickness means a baby girl is growing; others theorize that morning sickness is indicative of a strong pregnancy because all those hormones are bubbling and brewing away.

With The Four-Why-Oh, I escaped morning sickness and never had any significant nausea (nothing that a diet limeade couldn’t cure).

With The Pregnancy That Was and Wasn’t, I was horribly nauseous up until the 10-week ultrasound revealed an empty sac . . . after that, I was just heartsick.

With the four pregnancies that followed the blighted ovum, we never got far enough for nausea (or the lack thereof) to be an issue.

When the nausea this time became so bad that I was avoiding dragging myself out of bed, I finally called our doctor to ask for a prescription.

Which might seem like a no-brainer call to make.

But making that call felt like complaining about physical discomfort.

And in light of how much we have endured to conceive this child, complaining about physical discomfort would be a horribly selfish and ungrateful reaction.

Wouldn’t it?

Almost as though somewhere along the way, in between all the needles and stirrups and miscarriages and IVFs and tears and prayers, I traded the ‘right’ to complain about any of the less-than-comfortable byproducts of the dream I was chasing.

So I didn’t complain.

Just knew if I did that some voice (my voice?) would chastise me: “Isn’t this what you wanted? How ungrateful can you be?!”

And I’m not complaining now.

Simply explaining.

Relating.

That I stayed as still as possible.

As quietly as possible.

And that, sweet friends, is just what in/fertility does.

*     *     *     *    *

Last month, in an evening of confidence, I did a bit of online browsing of car seat sales.

I exchanged texts with my friend Julie, who through four precious babies has probably gained more car seat experience in the last six years than any other friend I know.

Even found Julie’s favorite infant seat model at a fantastic discount, something like $70 off.

Knew it was an excellent price, not likely to be beaten before July.

But then, in the instant I considered dropping the seat into the virtual shopping cart, the anxiety rose up again.

That I will need an infant seat this summer is a presumption I cannot make.

So I closed the website and pushed the car seat out of my mind.

And that, sweet friends, is just what multiple losses do.

*     *     *     *     *

When the first positive blood test for this pregnancy came back on November 2nd, our reproductive endocrinologist was surprised.

He admitted as much.

And then he promptly recommended I resume the Lovenox injections we had tried once before.

While I have not been diagnosed with any clotting disorder that might have caused or contributed to our prior losses, our RE explained that there may be clotting factors not detected by the recurrent pregnancy loss (RPL) panels we had done.

So maybe I didn’t have a clotting issue. Or maybe I had one the tests do not detect yet.

Either way, the Lovenox injections would not hurt, he told us, and might . . . just maybe . . . even help sustain a pregnancy. ‘The Kitchen Sink Approach,’ in other words.

Lovenox needles are small, maybe the smallest of all the needles I’ve self-injected with in the last few years.

But the medication stings.

A lot.

And causes bruising.

Big belly bruises.

Nevertheless, at 4 weeks along, without hesitation or complaint (see above), I began the shots that same evening.

When we transitioned from RE to OB at 8 weeks, the OB agreed that while the Lovenox might not be doing anything, it wouldn’t hurt to continue it until our next appointment.

My belly began growing.

Growing big, sad looking bruises.

When we met with the OB at around 12 weeks, he extended the it-isn’t-hurting-so-why-not theory and advised continuing the Lovenox for another month.

As my belly began getting tighter, I was running out of easily-pinchable belly skin.

But I kept pinching wherever I could.

And bruising wherever I pinched.

And stifling the traitorous whimpers my throat offered up in response to the stinging.

When we met with the OB at 16 weeks, we learned we were nearing the end of the Why-Not period, and he advised that at 18 weeks we discontinue the Lovenox.

By coincidence (or, you know, not) the box of pre-filled syringes would be empty after the 18w1d dose.

Unless I called in a refill order.

Which I thought about doing.

Because our RE had allowed enough refills to cover an entire pregnancy.

But I didn’t call in a refill.

Instead, I worked my way through the box . . .

. . . down to the last shot.

Trying not to complain

about the stinging and bruising

(how selfish! Isn’t this what you wanted?!?).

Trying not to look forward

to the absence of stinging and bruising

(how selfish! What if those shots make a difference?!?).

Caught somewhere between fear and relief.

Because that, sweet friends, is just what infertility does.

*     *     *     *     *

I’ve fielded the “are you going to find out?” question a lot lately.

People always want to know whether a baby is a boy or a girl.

When friends are pregnant, I always want to know.

When carrying Sophie Belle, I had to know. At the 20-week ultrasound her legs were demurely crossed, ultimately giving us no reliable indication of her her-ness, and I was so frustrated at having to wait another month to try again. The nerve of her!

With this baby, though, I don’t want to find out before delivery.

From the first conversations my husband and I dared to have where we acknolwedged, even obliquely, the possibility of converting one of the rooms into a nursery or the possibility of a name or just the possibility, I told him that I’d prefer not to find out until delivery whether this child is a son or a daughter.

Crazy talk! he pronounced, which in subsequent weeks would be seconded by The MotherSuch and The Other Valley Girl and even Sophie Belle (she’s as nervy as she was at 20 weeks, that one).

It took me a while to be able to articulate The Why for any of them (the adult ones, anyway), before I could give them a window for understanding.

Instead I blamed it on hormonal contrariness — that I was probably just feeling that way because I knew my husband would have the opposite opinion.

But that was just a deflection.

And we had many weeks before it would actually become a question of finding out or not.

If it would become a question.

If.

That is the reason I don’t want to know:

if.

IF.

If we find out which we are expecting, a whole cavernous expanse of planning will engulf us:

names, nursery colors, bedding, clothes, blankets, bibs,

stuff, stuff, stuff, stuff, stuff.

I don’t want stuff.

Stuff makes me extremely uneasy right now.

Because . . . if.

More precisely: what if this baby never makes it home to us? What if we have a room set up with a bunch of happy, adorable baby stuff, but then no precious baby . . . that is what frightens me.

When I think about it.

Which I try not to.

And mostly don’t.

The wonderful thing is, this time around I know how small our needs are.

Eight pounds, give or take.

Eight pounds of healthy, wiggly, heavenly-scented baby.

That’s it.

Everything else is stuff.

Everything else is after.

Everything else is the then that follows the if.

And that, sweet friends, is what multiple losses do.

*     *     *     *     *

Last week I had dinner with my friend Joanna.

Just us girls.

For the first time in . . . months, anyway.

People have been asking, she told me, about planning a shower for you.

How fortunate am I to have friends who so generously want to celebrate this baby!

And yet . . . I was holding my breath, the stuff-panic creeping in peripherally.

I know I was holding my breath because I actually had the thought “I am holding my breath.”

Which made me exhale.

But I think she noticed all the same.

I said late July would be good, she went on, or August even. And someone said ‘but isn’t she due in July?’ and I told them ‘Yes! Exactly.’ So I hope that’s okay with you.

Yes, she had noticed.

Because she’s held her breath before.

And she is fluent in the subtle difference between planning for what might be and celebrating what is.

And that, sweet friends, is just what infertility does.

*     *     *     *     *

The first time I felt this baby move was at 14w1d.

One of those big-bubbles-popping in the low abdominal area sensations.

One of those amazingly beautiful big-bubbles-popping sensations.

Other bubbles would be popping over the next several weeks.

Randomly.

Often with days in between them.

And when I felt one I would realize

that I had been waiting for that bubble,

quietly,

prayerfully,

ever since the last one.

Subconciously.

Quietly.

Waiting.

In the days after the last Lovenox shot, the bubbles

went away.

Replaced with flips.

And flops.

Every day.

Noticeably, every single day.

One evening, as The Four-Why-Oh fashioned me a hairstyle consisting of several dozen clips and ponytail holders, she spontaneously began singing a song from pre-school:

it’s bubbling, it’s bubbling, it’s bubbling in my soul . . . 

At her singing, the baby began flipping and flopping.

While I cried.

Quietly.

Thankfully.

Hopefully.

Because that, sweet friends, is just what infertility and multiple losses do

when they intersect,

for even a brief moment,

with the elixir of

pure,

unexpected,

delicious,

joy.

From the foresight, encouragement, and sense of humor of my former boss:

“Would you look at this? It’s alive!” I told Mr. Goodbar.

“I thought you were letting it do that on purpose,” said he.

Ignoring his completely implausible suggestion that he had noticed something (anything) unusual (or not) around here, I instead considered . . . → Read More: Hush Man, You’ll Frighten It]]> From a basket of yellow onions, I recently pulled out this surprise.

“Would you look at this? It’s alive!” I told Mr. Goodbar.

“I thought you were letting it do that on purpose,” said he.

Ignoring his completely implausible suggestion that he had noticed something (anything) unusual (or not) around here, I instead considered whether the roots could take on new life, too.

“Hmmm. Maybe I should plant it, encourage it to keep growing,” I mused.

“Yep, that should kill it alright.”

It’s nice that he knows me so well.

But sometimes?

It’d be okay if he did so a little less out-loud.

But then, in order to partake in The In/Fertility Smorgasbord I had to get over that shyness. So I put my big girl silly socks on (the big girl drawers being antithetical and all) and . . . → Read More: “Sonogenic,” she said of The Ute]]> I once was bashful about All Things Stirrups. You know, way back Once Upon a Time.

But then, in order to partake in The In/Fertility Smorgasbord I had to get over that shyness. So I put my big girl silly socks on (the big girl drawers being antithetical and all) and got over the shyness. Or at least got around it.

I didn’t keep count of how many transvaginal ultrasounds I’ve had. A bunch. Two dozen would be a conservative estimate.

All I know for certain is that The Ute had its very first Internal Photo Op on December 4, 2009, and its most recent one on December 6, 2012.

*     *     *     *     *

At the end of November, after the second ultrasound where we saw (and heard) this baby’s heartbeat, our RE told us we were ready to ‘graduate’ on to an OB but that he would continue to see us through the first trimester if we were not yet ready to leave his care.

I was not yet ready to leave his care. Or his weekly monitoring. Or his intimate familiarity with the variety of medications we were using to (hopefully) help sustain the pregnancy. But, man if he wasn’t so reassuring about how promising our speck of a baby looked that he actually inspired me to place a call to an OB who handles high risk pregnancies.

We’ll just keep seeing Dr. K until the OB can work us in, I reasoned to Mr. OtherSuch. Being only at the 8 week mark, I assumed that it would be near the end of the first trimester before we made it into the new office.

I could not have been more surprised than to call the OB’s office on a Monday and be scheduled for labs that Tuesday, another ultrasound that Thursday, and the first meeting with the OB on Friday. They were ‘working us in’ alright. With a swiftness. Which was the most awesome possible balm for my nerves.

*     *     *     *     *

When we were called back for the OB ultrasound on December 6th, we were greeted by the friendliest of technicians. And about one-point-five minutes later realized this was not our first meeting: earlier in the fall she’d come with some mutual friends to a dinner and group Bible study at our home. We’d supped. We’d chatted. We’d prayed. And now we potentially were about to get real intimate. Wand intimate.

Oh my.

*     *     *     *     *

We will start with an abdominal ultrasound, she explained, but if I can’t see everything we need to then we can always do the other one.

I assured her I was no stranger to The Wand, so if we had to do that I’d be okay. Then I wondered if I sounded too nonchalant about it, or worse: eager. Like, maybe I should have feigned some distress at the very notion of it. That got me a tad embarrassed: that I wasn’t embarrassed, but figured I should have been.

But then on the screen we saw a little gummy bear looking thing and I forgot all about which of us, in the construct of my imagination, was supposed to be the embarrassed one. The heart was beating beautifully. Baby was wiggling. I was entranced.

When she said that we would be able to see the baby even better if I didn’t mind switching to the transvaginal probe, I paused momentarily. If that long.

Who was I kidding?

Over three years in, hundreds of needle sticks, pills swallowed and <ahem> inserted, floods of tears, thousands of prayers . . . and I might turn down a closer view of this babe on account of some remaining shred of dignity?

Not a chance.

And thank goodness for the reduced modesty threshold, from which we were afforded a 3D view of what hopefulness looks like.

*     *     *     *     *

Fortunately, when we returned on December 26th for a followup ultrasound, Ms. Super Incredible U/S Technician pretty quickly said that this time we ought to be able to see everything pretty clearly via the abdominal transducer.

It’s a good thing she led with that, because I was all kinds of ready to grab a paper gown and hop into the stirrups and I wasn’t going to waste any time on a pretense of discomfort.

Perhaps, I realize in hindsight, she may have sensed as much.

I’m okay with that.

There’s not a needle or a pill or a progesterone suppository . . . or a wand . . . or a hysterosalpingogram . . . or an egg retrieval . . . or a full-bladder-with-the-weight-of-an-elephant on top during embryo transfer . . . or a loss . . . or a D&C . . . or an afternoon spent crying on my floor . . . or a whatever that I wouldn’t do again just for the chance to be right here.

Just for the chance to be right here,

watching an 11 week, 2 day old fetus playing peek-a-boo.

Just for the chance.

*     *     *     *     *

As we were preparing to leave that December 26th appointment, the technician printed out a string of photos. The string got longer and longer, evoking that “wahoo–I’m a WINNER!!!” feeling just like when the skee ball machine spits out ticket after ticket after ticket.

Recognizing a bear hug might be too much for our new relationship, I instead, in as subdued a manner as I could muster, thanked her for adding to my photo stash of this baby.

My pleasure! she told me, You’re what we would call ‘sonogenic’ so it’s easy to get lots of cute pictures of the baby.

Sonogenic.

Sonogenic, you guys.

That’s the nicest thing anyone has said about my uterus in, like, ever.

I mean, it may not be the best at knowing when/how to hold on and when/how to let go, but The Ute, she knows how to work it for the camera.

Which I suppose explains the album of 29 ultrasound photos that we’ve collected from 6w5d through 11w2d.

And might also explain the pep talks I’ve been giving it about the upcoming 20-week anatomy scan.

Work it, work it . . . show me love . . . own it!

Maybe.

Sometimes, not.

When he does, the process is generally one of: reading, head-shaking, re-reading, and then pushing back from the desk combined with a final round of head-shaking.

Last month, in . . . → Read More: Trial by Motherhood (OS:S in the E-T on the 01/06/13)]]> Sometimes in between the writing and the submitting, Mr. Goodbar reads over the monthly newspaper columns.

Sometimes, not.

When he does, the process is generally one of: reading, head-shaking, re-reading, and then pushing back from the desk combined with a final round of head-shaking.

Last month, in addition to the head-shaking, there was also chuckling, head-hanging, and eyebrow-raising.

“Did I go too far for you?” I asked.

“You’re the one who did it, not me,” he answered.

“So is there such a thing as ‘too far’ for you?”

“Is that what you’re trying to do? Find the limit?”

“I might be angling for you to host an intervention. I’m not sure anymore,” I confessed.

I was on a confession roll that night.

To wit, the January 2013 column:

So, we had (HAD) bugs and once (and ONLY once, thankyouverymuch) it seems I might have . . . um . . . been a bit of an indelicate flower. Against my will. On both counts. For the record.

It felt good to get that all off my chest.

But what was even better?

After the column ran on Sunday, the newspaper forwarded me an e-mail from a reader who had written to the editor with a helpful tip about how she could get rid of her pesky flour bugs. “She” and “her” as in “Sara, not Shelby,” as in “the editor’s” pesky flour bugs.

That’s going to rank as probably my favorite case of mistaken authorship ever.

Because you know . . . it’s not only the flour bugs with which Sara must’ve been credited.

And, alas, there is opened a whole new level of deniability for my writing!

(Please do be sure to RSVP when you get the intervention-invite from Mr. Goodbar.)