Perfect. (Well, Almost)

I don’t think I’ve been scolded so much by an obstetrician since I was pregnant with Pooka, thirteen years ago. Back then, the doctor gave me a hard time because overall I gained about fifty pounds with her. Yesterday, Dr. Firstname shook his finger at me for losing weight. I lost four pounds between the second and yesterday. Between March  7^th’s visit and April 2^nd though, I gained nearly ten. Overall, I think it kind of evens out, since the only thing I’ve changed since April 2^nd is that I stopped going to McDonald’s for breakfast and I’m back on the bike when weather conditions permit. (Sorry, but I’m not going to ride in 27°F weather while I’m pregnant. I need my immune system to remain in working order.)

Oh, and I’m “just a little bit anemic.” Dr. Firstname says I should be able to remedy this by just eating more red meat. Oh no! *hand to forehead* Not more red meat! ANYTHING but that!

It also turns out that the local hospital is basically incapable of turning out proper phlebotomy lab results. This is the second time in a row for me, but hardly the only times it’s happened. I’m not sure what’s going on up the hill, but I’m a bit concerned about the output from their lab. A coworker told me that her husband, according to the local lab, might have a bladder/kidney infection or it could be bladder/kidney cancer. Um… HELLO! That’s a pretty drastic difference! Not impressed. I’ve therefore resolved to save myself the trouble and just go straight to the Big Hospital for all my lab work from here on out.

Oh! Right! So we had an ultrasound yesterday. One thing I love about going up to the Big Hospital is that they keep using the “P” word for me and Tempest. This, of course, reassures I.F. and makes me feel awesome. Tempest’s growth is Perfect. His heart rate is Perfect. My blood pressure is Perfect. The dangle of his choroid plexus is smaller than it was at the last ultrasound; and his lateral ventricles are less wide as well. This is a good thing, for those of you who don’t want to look them up on Wikipedia. Short version: His brain looks great. The marginal umbilical insertion (his umbilical cord being attached at the side of the placenta against the uterine wall, rather than smack-dab in the center of the placenta) is not hindering his growth, and the doctors (yes, doctors; I.F. asked several of them, just to reassure himself) don’t foresee it becoming a problem if it hasn’t by this point.

So yeah; except for losing a few pounds myself, and eating more red meat, we’re just Perfect.

Cherries, Pricks and Shoes

Yesterday we learned that Tempest hates dried cherries. Not enough to cause immediate digestive evacuation, mind you, but enough so that somehow my digestive system set them aside for the better part of six hours, and then evacuated them. By themselves. Nothing but dried cherries and water came back up, just before dinner last night. I have no idea how this is physiologically possible, but I swear it happened.

He has also finally discovered that there is more to his little uterine home than the area just above my pelvis. Now he's stretching and pressing against the area where his umbilical cord attaches to the placenta (once again: this one's placenta is located at the top center of my uterus. The cord attaches on my right side.) He's still moving strong, but his movements are thankfully losing momentum as he fills the space more and more. For this small favor, I am extremely grateful.

This morning I went up to the Little Hospital for the most-evil-blood-test-ever: The glucose tolerance test. The orange goo isn't as gooey as it was when I was pregnant with Pooka, thank goodness, but it's still WAY more sugary than anyone should reasonably have to ingest. I sat around the waiting room for an hour; my brain buzzing irritably from the sugar high; and then the phlebotomist didn't take enough blood out of my arm after having jabbed me more painfully than anyone has in a long time. So I got a second "pick" about a millimeter above the first, and even that one had to be "adjusted." Needless to say, my arm is sore. Pleh.

On the plus side: I'm almost seven months pregnant, and not only can I bike 8 miles a day, but I can still tie my shoes by myself! BOO-YAH!

Recuperating

Yesterday (Wednesday) I had to take the day off from work to recuperate. Tuesday evening, Bamf and The Ginge came over and made delicious breakfast for dinner. It’s one of my favorite types of dinner. In fact, I was so enthusiastic, I ate what had to have been half my weight in food. (Go, hyperbole, go!)

As it turns out: Tempest, like his sister, has chosen to cause his gestational carrier to become an unintentional, involuntary bulimic. Roughly translated, this means that when Preggosaurus eats too much, Tempest forces her to puke it all back up. Whereas his older, gentler sister would only force the excess out, Tempest insists on punishing poor Preggosaurus, making her throw up every possible bite that may not be fully digested and assimilated into the rest of her body just yet. For those of you who don’t know, this process takes the better part of an overnight to complete. It is not pretty and not pleasant.

I have therefore resolved to keep my meals tiny and regular over the course of the day, and to try not to eat anything after 7:00 pm. Just to be on the safe side. 

Fundus, The Destroyer

Tuesday I went back up to the Big Hospital for my monthly checkup. I had expected to see Dr. Badass, as that was who I.F. and I had arranged to see. The lady that preregistered me Monday evening said it wasn’t with Dr. Badass, but I didn’t believe her. Apparently Dr. Badass had something going on that week. The NERVE! As if doctors should have lives of their own. Pssh. Pff.

The doctor I did see was very nice, if a bit careless about his vocal decibel level. He is henceforth dubbed, “Dr. Loud.” He and his very fashion-forward nurse were very nice, and very attentive, though; and very, VERY loudly reassured I.F. when I called him, that Tempest’s dangling choroid plexus were nothing to worry about; that they’re very common, and that they resolve themselves an easy 90+% of the time. I wouldn’t be surprised if poor I.F. had had to hold the phone at arm’s length to avoid going deaf.

But seriously, the doctor was very nice, checked all of my current prenatal info with me, showed his intern how to measure my belly (26” from pelvis to the top of the fundus), listened to Tempest’s heart rate, and declared me “perfect.” We arranged to set up my glucose tolerance test within the next couple weeks and that was that.

Speaking of fundus: Hubs has decided that this particular (top) part of the uterus sounds like; and therefore IS; some kind of mushroom-monster. He has declared mine, “FUNDUS THE DESTROYER.” It has to be said in a deep, rumbling, threatening tone in order to affect the appropriate response in the listener. A number of amusing doodles have ensued as a result of this declaration. Ladies and gentlemen, how horribly DULL would my life be without this man? I think I must keep him.