Well, I mean, it is. But it isn’t. Not really.
Let me explain.
We drove down to the ultrasound clinic this morning bright and early. We got into a fight trying to find it, both our nerves stretched taut and close to breaking (oh wait, that was just me! Adam was mostly just calm and sleepy.)
I lay on the exam table, heart thudding, the room silent as the technician slid her little wand around in lazy circles over my belly. The screen was turned so that I couldn’t see it, every so often I would look over at Adam to check if he could see anything, he would shrug and shake his head, unable to make anything out.
This ultrasound felt different than the one we had at 18 weeks, where after getting the necessary measurements the technician showed me Baby G’s fingers and feet, pointed out the string of pearls for a spine.
This time I lay there and the tech didn’t say much as she clicked away. At one point she asked, “How far along did you say you were?”. I replied that I was 30 weeks.
A few minutes later she asked again, “Are you sure you’re 30 weeks?” “Yes,” I replied, “positive.”
Then again a few moments later, “When was your last period?”
I felt like shouting “What? What’s wrong! Just tell me! Is the baby too small? Is it not growing? Why do you keep asking me how far along I am?”
Well it turns out that I may be growing a little chunky monkey in this here belly ‘o mine, as all of the baby’s measurements are more consistent with a 32 week old instead of 30 weeks. A whole two weeks ahead of schedule! What an overachiever!
So now Demon Baby is MEGA DEMON BABY! swear I saw Adam swell with pride when he heard this, and now he thinks it’s quite amusing to make huge stomping Godzilla movements whenever he sees me coming. He’s also taken to growling “Me want FOOOD” and then cackling hysterically whenever I eat.
My self-esteem is doing great, why do you ask?
(I should probably note that my midwife says not to put much stock in ultrasound measurements this late in the game as they tend to be notoriously unreliable. Nonetheless I’d prefer a big chubby bub than a tiny one. Just sayin’.)
Despite mocking the size of his unborn child, Adam does deserve some commendation however, for staying strong whilst the technician hovered the wand over our baby’s genital area. Looking at me she asked, “Do you know what you’re having?”
“No” I replied.
“Do you want to?” she asked with a smile.
Time seemed to slow, then stop. Did we want to know? With all of this uncertainty - in the hospital, out of the hospital, vaginal birth, c-section, what if we just took one unknown off of that? What if we knew one thing for sure? What if we said yes?
She could tell us now, right now. We could choose a name, start saying he or she. It was tempting, so tempting.
I looked at Adam and he looked at me. We jointly shook our heads.
“No.” I answered, “No, we don’t want to know.”
The technician smiled and nodded her assent, resumed her measuring.
It felt so much like having one finger under the corner of the wrapping paper, knowing you could just tear a tiny corner and see it all, finally know everything. But as an experienced present-snooper I knew what comes after that initial jolt of adrenaline - it’s a blank sort of empty knowledge trying in vain to fill the hole that just seconds prior was stuffed to the brim with possibility. I’m glad we voted for uncertainty. Mystery.
Now. The main event. Ye olde placenta. I don’t really have any news on this, hence why this isn’t an update, not really.
The tech did remark in passing that it’s still low-lying, which isn’t necessarily a great sign, but she didn’t get much more specific.
My midwives have said that the placenta needs to clear the cervical opening by at least 2 cm in order for them to allow you to a vaginal birth. They haven’t received the report from the ultrasound clinic yet with exact measurements, but they’ve promised to call me and let me know the details as soon as they do.
I would be lying if I said I wasn’t googling all day. I would be lying if I said my heart didn’t drop and my eyes well up a little with disappointment when the tech said it was still low, that it hadn’t miraculously - through the force of my visualization and reiki and acupuncture and my little sister’s placenta dance - migrated into its proper position atop my womb.
I am preparing myself for bad news. Adam calls this crazy, I call this self-preservation. I’m hopeful, I mean 2 cm! That’s nothing! Surely I can manage 2 cm? But I am also reading up on c-sections, trying to find out how late I could push it, what the baby’s birthday would be, trying to figure out game plans for if I have to be put on bed rest.
At this point, please believe me when I say that I am with you in hoping that soon I never have to hear about my placenta ever, ever again. Hear that placenta? We’re all sick of you! Just go away! (preferably upwards and more than 2cm please!).
Especially those of you that read this jumble of words and aren’t family members and aren’t pregnant and maybe don’t ever want to be - those of you who must, occasionally find yourself wondering why you are wasting so much time reading about the internal reproductive organs of a stranger - thank you for wading through this with me.
In the meantime, more waiting. More waiting! UGH.