Seven (and a half) Pounds

Mini had her twenty-four week checkup yesterday morning at Cornestone Women's Clinic. I love that place. The staff is especially congenial, you can't get a bad physician there, and there are always plenty of magazines available for when you're nervous and you have to occupy yourself instead of gnawing your cuticles.

 

My sweet mother-in-law, Rhonda, and her friend Erica had the opportunity to join me, which alleviated my nerves quite a bit.  It can be a little unsettling to sit in the waiting room by yourself and rock back and forth, thinking of all the freaky movie scenes you’ve watched that take place in a doctor’s office.  If I had been alone, it would’ve been my own blasted fault.  I don’t know what I was thinking when I scheduled my appointment on one of Jason’s school days.  Oh, wait… yes I do.

 

“Cupcake.  Cupcake.  Cupcake.”

 

*&#$%*!

 

Anyway, the appointment went well, and all reports were positive.  My weight gain is right on target, which shocked me a little – I’m up six pounds from my pre-preg weight, which I thought would be a little behind, but I guess that’s why I’m not the one wearing the white coat.  I’ve observed while a bit of the chub in my face, wrists and legs has been syphoned out and redistributed into my midsection and thought, well hey, that wasn’t what I expected to happen. 

 

That’s cool.  She can have it. 

 

We got another positive report on our Her-Baby’s heartbeat : 144 BPM.  She’s been very consistent in that department.  She’s always in the one-forties.  She’s a good rhythm keeper.  Oh, Lord… what if that means she’s a drummer?!?!?

 

(This reminds me of a joke from back in my marching band days:

 

Q:  What do you call someone who hangs out with musicians?

 

A:  A drummer.

 

Heh.)

 

The only examination result that deviated from a simple checkmark on his clipboard was that my measurements indicated that she’s about a week ahead of schedule.  When I asked him what that meant in terms of a final result, he said, “That’s the difference between a seven and a seven and a half pound baby.”  As long as she’s healthy, that doesn’t disturb me one bit.  I was nearly eight pounds when I was born, and I turned out all right.  Right?

 

Right?

 

Right?!

 

*crickets chirping*

On the left, a former five pound baby.

On the right, a former eight pounder.

Which of these former fetuses would you trust?