20 June 2012

Knocked Up - Stay away from the Google

Yesterday we had the space age 3D Morphological Sonogram, which took waaaaaay longer than I thought it would, namely because Peanut is a stubborn camera shy little twerp just like her mother. The first go round the doctor got as many of the measurements as possible, decrying Peanut as a piccola peste dispettosa since she was face down into my kidneys and refused to move. When she got all she feasibly could for the time being, she sent us back downstairs to take a brief walk and eat a few candies with a fruit juice so that Peanut would move a bit.

So we did and I felt Peanut moving a bit more. We were called back up, and the doctor plopped a load of sonogram gel on my belly again, which proved to be a waste since Peanut was in the exact same position. Back downstairs for another walk, and Mon Amour and I were tapping on my belly like we were sending Morse code to a remote telegraph station. I felt a few more digs in my kidneys as we headed back up for the third time and crossed my fingers.

Finalmente she had moved position a bit, but was now hyperactive and wouldn't stay still. I lost track of how many times the doc called her piccola peste, which is a term of endearment mixed with that special frustration that only stubborn rambunctious kids can provide. A sentiment  I was starting to echo seeing how long this was taking and the fact that Peanut was starting to get her revenge  for disturbing her comfy position using my kidneys as pillows by bringing back the heartburn again.

The doc was final able to get a few good shots on the 3D scanner and we saw Peanut's face for the first time. Mon Amour was very quiet at that point and the doctor asked if he was seeing everything ok, and when he replied in the affirmative, Peanut smiled for the camera.

Somebody is already gunning for Daddy's Little Princess status.

So everything was looking ok, except the head measurements are on the lower side of the accepted range, in the 10th percentile. The doctor and her assistant looked at our previous sonograms, but said that the first one was done too late to accurately fix a gestational age and should have been done around 8-10 week. Cue me gritting my teeth as yet again the medical establishment gets all preachy contradictory with us again. I could feel Mon Amour getting all freaked out and stressy and this was not helping me keep back the tide of stomach acid creeping up my esophagus as the doctor swished the sonogram wand over my belly.

At the end, though, the doctor explained that in her opinion I was probably slightly less further along than originally thought and that considering the parents, she's not going to be a bobbleheaded baby, but it was something to keep an eye on by seeing the growth trends in other sonograms. Great. In spite of the worry at the forefront of my brain, I did idly muse that a smaller head made a natural birth more likely and also would be slightly less destructive to my vag.

Look, you'd be worried about this too if you heard half the episiotomy horror stories that I have. "Oh yes I love my child and I do it all over again but let me tell you about the Grand Canyon the doctor cut open on my perineum..." Gah.

The doctor reassured us once again that everything looked fine and was within acceptable range and off we went with a DVD and the results in hand.

As we were running around doing other stuff, I use Mon Amour's iPhone to Google "small fetal head measurements."

Bad. Fucking. Idea.

I've now lain awake since 4am with heartburn and a raging case of the worries over microcephaly and other horrible things.

As Will &; Olive respectively said last night on our way to dinner, "You shouldn't be Googling." "Yeah, Google has to be the worst invention i the world for pregnant women."

Sound advice, methinks...

I can logically appreciate that I will worry about Peanut for the rest of my natural life, but consider my ass kicked this morning. Lack of sleep, hormones, worry, and heartburn means that I can feel a massive cry fest coming on...


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