At my last prenatal visit, my OB slung a tape measure over my now protruding belly and pronounced me
an overachiever ahead of schedule. Six days ahead, to
be exact. During my full fetal scan on Friday, yet another OB – the on call OB
who made a brief and memorable cameo appearance after the ultrasound tech was
done regaling us with the bizarre-alien-freak-show that is a 3D ultrasound
– confirmed her diagnosis: our little heir to the throne
is measuring a walloping 6 days ahead of schedule.
Both OBs asked me whether I was a big baby – nope, a mighty average seven pounds – and then whether C was – again, rather average at seven pounds, seven ounces. The latter OB, not having endured my infertility rantings/clearly not having read anything in my chart, happily told me that it was probably just a miscalculation because due dates are always just estimates, because women ovulate at different times of the month, because –
At that point I cut her off to politely inform her that our boy wonder was created in a petri dish and C’s sperm was inserted into my lady parts by a nurse in a jaunty little threesome involving me, in stirrups, in an unflattering fluorescent-lit room, at 10 am on a Friday morning. WELL THEN.
(Turns out that was not the response she was looking for.)
With both OBs I had follow up questions – was the baby healthy? Should I be worried? Is there a reason I would be measuring nearly a week ahead? Had I gained too much weight? Should I be…ignoring their platitudes and running as fast as I can to the nearest computer, eager to be knee deep in the wisdom of Yahoo answers?
<readers on the edge of their seats>
Guess what guys? It was the last one! <breathless now from running> It was the last one!
Not having received a satisfying, substantive response – my OB: we don’t worry unless it’s more than a week ahead, your weight gain is normal, we’ll just continue to measure the baby’s growth; the guest-star-on-call-OB: Hmmmm *long pause, furrows brow* umm, I don’t know! (Said with far too much displaced enthusiasm) – I did what all infertiles (and let’s be honest, any pregnant woman worth her salt) do best: I turned to the all knowing interwebs for answers.
And boy did I get them. IN SPADES.
Far be it from me to question the deep insights of non-medically-licensed trolls and moms-to-be whiling their days away on internet forums. They had just the answers I was looking for. Here then, are my options:
1. Nothing is wrong. Babies grow at different rates. Sometimes smaller women measure ahead of schedule. Move right along and stop perseverating. Please watch these miniature donkeys play with a toddler.
2. You will be giving birth next week to an overweight adult hippopotamus. Proceed to the “husky” section of your nearest department store.
3. Polyhydramnios. Which, translated from the Greek, means:
TERROR! Do not pass
go, do not begin painting the nursery! too much amniotic fluid. The causes
of which are all rainbows and butterflies – you know, stuff like chromosomal
abnormalities, life threatening conditions which prevent your baby from
swallowing amniotic fluid like he’s supposed to, infections like parovirus
(“slapped cheek disease” – literally, I could not make this up if I tried) or
toxoplasmosis (universe, I stopped gardening to avoid this, hello!).
4. More cascading horribles that will result in placental abruption, catastrophic pregnancy hemorrhaging and certain maternal and fetal death.
So, what about you guys – anyone measuring ahead? Any collective wisdom to share?
And just because you made it all the way to the end of this rambling post chronicling my continuing worries, I finally took a picture of something I wore to work (dress: Pea in the Pod; maternity leggings: Pea in the Pod; flats: Madewell; cardigan: J.Crew circa 1998, seriously-why-do-i-still-own-this?). It might not have been one of my more inventive ensembles but you know me, I give the people what they want and you dear readers, wanted photos!
|(I think I have a future taking selfies in the mirror. Also, I think you can see my dog's head in the background.)|
 I guess I could devote an entire post to that 60 minute circus. But it feels more at home in a footnote. You guys, it was crazy. A full fetal scan is an hour long romp through the uterus-looking-glass. A chance for an ultrasound tech you just met to spend an inordinate amount of time rubbing warmed (seriously, why?) lube across your expanding gut. Despite our spawn looking like a lumpy headed alien baby – which I’m assured is totally normal – we saw some insane stuff: Ventricles! Fingers! Ribs! Two whole brain hemispheres! Pumping heart! Our terrifying/exhilarating/ohmygodisthisreallyhappening future as parents of a living, breathing, human child! Apparently our son “images beautifully” (Hollywood, we’re coming for you!). And this all before the REALLY FUN PART – a surprise afternoon wanding to measure the length of my cervix. After being assured that all the parts were there and in their correct places, we got a goodie bag of photos to take home.
 As in, add 6 days to “19 weeks, 5 days.” Seriously though, can you? I can’t. That’s why I went to law school.