Uh, -down. Have you seen my shit? Cause I lost it this morning.
Anyone who tells you that after 12 weeks you can relax is an ignoramus, a liar, or a lying ignoramus (or, my favorite contraction: ignoramus + asshole = ignoranus; well, it's my favorite next to jackass + asshole = jackhole. Do you sense a theme emerging?). By all common sense and sensibility I should be walking on air by now, at 16+ weeks. But I am not. Case in point: this morning. I had a full-on panic attack (or as near as I've ever experienced) in the shower. Well, let's back up. First, I ran to the bathroom after waking up and puked. That has not happened before. Through all the nausea, I never made an offering to the porcelain god, and yet this morning, a sacrifice was finally flushed. Then I got in the shower and just starting...panicking. About my OB appointment today. About not feeling any fetal kung fu kicks yet. About finding a heartbeat this morning. About the unlikely but devastating possibility of incompetent cervix. And at that juncture of crazy and anxious I bawled my eyes out in the shower. Like a really sane person. Oy.
I was fully prepared to request -- ne, demand -- a pelvic exam to reconfirm my cervix is hermetically sealed and to ask for an ad hoc ultrasound to actually see the heart beating and see Baby B do the Hammer dance in real-life fetal person. And then I realized: I am a crazy person. I mean, I was crazy to begin with, so there's really no change from baseline. And so I didn't ask. Today we just took a turn into Southside Crazytown and it was not pretty. I would like to throw out today's data point and just use the last observation carried forward from the 14-week visit. It went much better.
The morning up-chucking was a surprise. But I have two theories. First, the leftover soup I ate for lunch yesterday may have been past its prime. Second, and more in line with the way the universe bitch-slaps us around, it is punitive for my crime of starting an online baby registry this past weekend. In essence, I am allowing myself the voodoo belief that registering for a bouncer may snuff out my baby. Or at least make me vomit. Irrational, you say? Oh, the scientific part of my brain concurs and is happy to co-author that paper with you. But the batshit-crazy insane part of my brain clearly articulates, "You eeeeediot! You cannot buy a cribsheet or a blanket or you will keeeel your baybeeeee!" Guess which part wins? I'm not left-brained or right-brained, I'm insane in the membrane (you won't get that song out of your head for hours now; you're welcome).
I had this radical idea to come home after my appointment and take a refreshing nap, to hit the mental reset button, but I got sidetracked on my quest for lunch and snacks. I cruised the grocery store aisles, passing up every unhealthy food (go me!) until....the ranch dip. She called like a siren. A delicious, creamy siren. Oh, end-of-aisle impulse-buy displays, you are so fucking effective. So in addition to granola bars and organic peanut butter, I have a vat of ranch dip and krinkle-cut kettle chips in the kitchen. Yum. And now that I'm home, a shit-ton of work teleconferences were added to my calender, so I am tied up in meetings until 5PM. Ugh. This work bullshit is really cutting into my laziness efforts. Maybe I'll take the cordless phone into the bedroom and lay down for those meetings. (I am typing this post during the first one, as I eat my lunch from Qdoba, chowing away on mute. Mothereffing multitasking!).
P.S. the OB appointment went fine. The kid is still alive with a heartbeat in the mid-140's, and my ute is movin' on up. And the OB gently talked me down from my incompetent cervix ledge, assuring me she's never seen a case of spontaneous incompetence with no prior history of cone or other gyn procedures. As she said this, I sized her up and momentarily concluded that she looks pretty young, so her never having seen a case in her brief career thus far isn't all that reassuring....and then I let my sanity take over. Because, you know, giving birth on the funny farm is not a goal.
P.P.S. Our anatomy scan is in 3 weeks, but we are still planning to NOT find out the gender. But I will be watching the ultrasound tech like a hawk for any careless clues or giveaways....and will be staring a hole into the pictures for any sign of turtles...