warmed-over soapboxesclever would be nice

Bug-eyed and bloated

§ July 13th, 2010 § Filed under opinions on childish things § 1 Comment

By now you should’ve seen the update and at least one ultrasound photo — we’ve posted liberally on Facebook, Twitter, and this blog, so yeah: it’s a boy. And seeing as how most people we know have one, if not two, girls, we’re pretty stoked to do what we do best: things differently. It prevents us from having to ask, much less take, others’ advice.

Anyway — back to the title. When we scheduled the ultrasound, I was a little consternated when they told me to come with a full bladder. You know coffee? That delicious, delicious beverage I’ve been drinking for nearly as long as I could breathe? It has wreaked wonders on my bladder, the type I’ll pay for when I’m fifty and am wearing diapers to my child’s college graduation. But dutifully, this morning, I drank four tall glasses of water (about 15 oz each), the last three of which in the hour and a half before the appointment.

Hospitals, let me say this: It is NOT NICE to tell a pregnant woman to have a full bladder AND KEEP HER WAITING. Ten minutes to do paperwork may be on time for hospitals, but all I could think of was taking that cheap ballpoint pen and fashioning a shunt for my bladder. It was another achingly painful ten minutes before the ultrasound tech deigned to take us into her lair. But the powers of observation were strong with this one:

“Are you uncomfortable?”

YA THINK, LADY?

“Um, I really have to go to the bathroom,” I said. The jury conferred briefly before handing me my Understatement of the Year trophy and a sash, which I’m still wearing.

“I could see it in your eyes,” she said. Because they were five feet in front of my head? “Let me just take a quick peek and see if you can empty some of that,” she said.

Yeah, right, ‘some of that,’ I thought, pondering that when a dam breaks, it doesn’t just empty some of the reservoir behind it.

She got me on the table, put that ooey gel on my belly, and set the transducer against my skin. On the screen, all you could see for miles was an ocean of bladder. There was a tide and current and everything, even a faint Coriolis effect in the lower hemisphere.

The ultrasound tech deemed it acceptable for me to evacuate part of my bladder, and duly fished out a disposable coffee cup and sent me along to the bathroom. “You can let out a cup, no more.” Right. And you can breathe, but please, just once a day.

Fast-forward (you’re welcome) to the scan: Internets, we have a very active little boy. Of the two times we’ve seen him, he has not been still for an instant. The does not bode well for Ye Olde Mother-to-Be, but we’ll see how it goes. Fetus spent most of the hour-long scan banging his head against his placenta, kicking about, and stubbornly facing away from the tech.

Tangent: My 100% Scandinavian mother married my recalcitrantly Scottish-and-whatnot father, and lo, their genetic material met, found each other to be suitably obstinate, and mated. The net result is Me, and if stubbornness were an Olympic sport, I’d be a medal contender every year.

So really, I’m just reaping what was sown before my time.

Most of the scan went well, although there were a few uncomfortable moments: one, when I was squinting at the screen, wondering why the vertebrae looked triplicate: does the baby have three spines? The tech explained something about “facettes,” which sounded like mispronounced “facets” to me, but whatever. Another odd moment was when the tech decided to perform exploratory surgery in my lower right quadrant with the transducer, trying to find an ovary, or perhaps that quarter I swallowed when I was four. I was pleased when the baby kicked at the wand. That’s my boy.

However, the worst part was when the tech was exploring the other side of my abdomen for whatever its Bermuda Triangle had taken from her. Evidently she found it, or didn’t find it, and scanned back towards the baby’s spine. I saw the image appear on the screen, and she exclaimed something that was the Old Conservative Adventist version of “Fucking hell!” (it was actually “Oh my goodness!”), and time stopped.

About ten hours later, him gripping my hand so tightly they’d have to surgically unfuse the pair, Matt asked, “Um, is that good or bad?”

“You get what you want if you wait for it,” the tech said triumphantly. Either the baby had a momentary lapse of stubbornness and we finally had a good profile shot, or else she is very good at covering up a verbal gaffe.