Today was my 24-week check-up on the little oyster.
The day started out with me repeating most of the 20-week ultrasound because the tech couldn’t get all the pictures they like to see of certain body parts. Today I went back to confirm that the oyster does in fact have lips, a nose, and a heart, and that they are all formed and growing correctly.
Prior to the 20-week ultrasound I dutifully drank the amount of water prescribed and held my full bladder until we got there. Since I already drink more water than the average bear, my eyeballs were turning yellow when I checked in for the original ultrasound. The tech took a few pictures, compared certain things to the size of my full bladder, and let me use the bathroom. I assumed the 24-week ultrasound would be the same.
Alas for my yellow eyeballs this time. Having consumed water on my own terms for this one, I was confident that my bladder would be sufficiently full but didn’t count on how full it would be after a half-hour wait. And then, since we were doing an abbreviated version of the ultrasound–although not much abridged–the tech didn’t check my vitals and then let me use the bathroom, she just jumped right into the million photos she was after. My eyes leaked a few errant tears as I lay flat on the table, and although I was sure it was just because my eyes run sometimes, after a few drips I wondered if my body had figured out a way to tinkle from the eyes.
Later I saw my regular o.b. for my regular check-up. Standard procedure there is check in, piddle in a cup and leave it for the lab techs, then see the doctor. Some studies (no doubt done by men) have shown that ‘pregnancy brain’ is made up but I and pregnant women everywhere beg to differ. What else could account for the fact that, after doing this a half-dozen times, I went into the bathroom to fill my cup, mercifully emptied my bladder while reading the bathroom wall signs I know by heart, and only then realized that I had completely forgotten about the cup, sitting empty on its little shelf.
Try as I did to will myself to produce just a few. more. drops. it wasn’t happening. Shame-faced but urilogically relieved, I slunk back to the waiting room and had to tell the nurse who took my blood pressure what I had done. Or, more accurately, not done.
As I sat in the exam room waiting for the doctor, I noticed that my afternoon snack was still with me in a few not-so-flattering ways. Not only was the apple I had eaten in the car stuck in my teeth, but a small collection of very orange bbq chip crumbs had collected themselves quite obviously on the gray-shirted shelf of my enhanced bust.
All told it wasn’t my best day, but I’m glad I wasn’t making any first impressions. By the time I hobbled down the stairs to see the podiatrist who diagnosed my mysteriously and painfully swollen ankle as a case of tendonitis and wrapped my foot firmly in a bandage, I was glad that I don’t meet my new dentist until tomorrow.
In other news, when we did our week’s grocery shopping yesterday, the husband dropped his bag of deli meat into the cart with a satisfied grin.
The husband: You’re not going to like what I picked.
Me: What is it?
The husband: Bologna.
The husband: I haven’t had bologna in years and it just sounds so good for this week.
Me: This means you’ll have to make your own sandwiches this week. I can’t stand that stuff.
The husband: No problem.
Fast forward to today, on the ride home from the Metro. The husband got in the car and leaned his seat back wearily.
Me: Are you ok?
The husband: I made a mistake.
Me: Uh oh. What kind of mistake?
The husband: That bologna was disgusting.
The husband: It didn’t taste like I remember. I ate a garbage sandwich for lunch.
Me: HAHAHA! You mean a meat by-product that is uniform in color and perfectly round doesn’t taste as good to you at 26 as it did at 8?
The husband: No. My palate has changed.
Me: Hahaha! Well, it’s too bad that’s the meat you picked for this week. You have to eat it.
The husband: I know. It was like armadillo skin. I even chased it with a bag of Skittles, trying to get the taste out of my mouth.
Me: No luck?
The husband: No. All I got was a headache for the rest of the day.
Me: I’ll make a deal with you–you never buy, eat, or say ‘bologna’ to me again, and I’ll get you something else tonight when I stop at the store.
The husband: Deal. It was so gross but I ate it anyway.
Me: My face hurts from laughing.
The husband: I’m not hungry for dinner. I’m never going to eat again.