Week 15 (17 weeks pregnant): Anticipation, Anticipaa-aa-aation is Keepin’ Me Waiting or There Are Two Colors in My Head

For weeks now, people have asked me if I know if I’m having a boy or a girl, which of course I won’t know until the ultrasound that is done between 18 and 20 weeks. After forgetting numerous times, I finally set the date: next Thursday (April 15th), I’ll find out if it’s a little Greg or a little Mary that’s been swimming around in there. The instructions I was given were hilarious at best: I’m expected to drink 24-36 ounces of water an hour prior and not pee my pants. Considering that I’ll have the urge to pee when my bladder is holding approximately a thimble’s worth of urine, I’m sure this will be a challenge.

I’ve made no secret of the fact that I would prefer to have a boy. I have always wanted a boy, and have always envisioned myself as the mother of a boy. Why? I’m not entirely sure, but probably because of the severe lack of testosterone in my family (and Greg’s). My mom is one of four girls (no boys). My maternal grandmother is one of seven children, only one of which was a boy. My grandmother’s twin sister had three girls (and no boys). My maternal grandfather had two sisters and no brothers. One of my mom’s cousins has five girls and no boys (can you tell my family is Catholic?). And so on. In Greg’s family, it’s very similar: he has five nieces and one nephew. His mother was one of four children, only one of which was a boy. One of his cousins has two girls, and two stepdaughters. I have to admit I feel more than a little pressure for my little bundle of joy to have its very own little bundle of joy, merely because of the overwhelming presence of girls in both of our families. At family gatherings with the in-laws, the gap is clear: the smattering of men folk/boys present congregate near the TV to watch whatever game is on, and the massive group of females convenes elsewhere. I usually end up with the guys; not because I just love sports (Cardinals baseball is about the only sport I can even remotely tolerate), but because I’m more comfortable there. This is not to say I hate other women and I especially don’t hate the women in Greg’s family because they’re all very lovely women, but I feel a little out of place and well, crowded. I’m not the girly type. In fact, I’ve spent the vast majority of my life in jeans, t-shirt and sneakers; about the only time you’ll see me in a dress or skirt is when attending weddings or funerals. Other than my recently acquired crocheting and knitting skillz, I’m not into the typical girl things. I had Barbies growing up, but I was just as apt to ride my bike or find some other way to get injured or covered in dirt (usually either by digging around in the dirt or playing with whatever dog we had at the time). When I was a wee lass, I was a total daddy’s girl and we would go on motorcycle rides to see inappropriately-violent-for-my-tender-age Arnold Swarzenegger movies, and I loved every minute of it. I target shot for fun. I often wore camouflage clothes, and was sad when I grew out of my very favorite camo shorts. I loved the hell out of Nintendo games and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. I watched He-Man along with She-Ra. I wanted more than anything to take karate lessons, much more than ballet or tumbling. I wouldn’t go so far as to call myself butch in my formative years, but I was definitely not the most delicate of ladies. Once puberty hit, I became less of a daddy’s girl and more of a hormonal holy terror, but that’s neither here nor there. Even as boobs sprouted and the baby factory started up business (a business that wouldn’t prove successful for many more years, of course), my interests lay mainly in music (and not the typical crap that girls liked, I’ll have you know; I have a pretty encyclopedic/Aspergian knowledge on a variety of musical topics and had the aspiration to be a rock star at one point and took guitar lessons, but I grew out of that one, thank goodness) and avoiding being the typical girl, which resulted in my frequently being accused of being a lesbian. I did eventually grow out of all that business of course and entered the typically “girly” profession of nursing, but I’ve retained my sense of sarcasm and my sense of being just a little different from most girls.

That said, the thought of raising a girl is absolutely terrifying to me. The thought of dressing it in anything pink or frilly sends me into panic mode; in fact, I refuse to do so if it is in fact a girl, and will specifically ask for not-pink things on my registry. I’m not going to dress it up in camo and construction boots of course, but I find the clear division between the sexes that starts at a young age just plain ridiculous. Boys get blue; girls get pink. Boys like sports and trucks; girls like playing dress up and being princesses. Of course, these are all socially constructed expected behaviors and likes/dislikes, but it seems to me that girls are pushed harder to be girly than boys are to be boyish. My inner-feminist recoils at the notion of buying a girl baby dolls and a kitchen play set to further enforce the notion that girls are only good for squeezing out pups and making dinner, but I also detest the idea that boys aren’t supposed to like those things; I also don’t want to feel like I’m pushing a girl (or boy, for that matter) to be something she’s (he’s) not. The subject of gender has stirred up a lot of emotions in me that were either long buried or that I didn’t even know existed.

Of course, I do want to make it clear that I already love this baby, boy or girl, and I’m not going to leave it on the side of a mountain if it’s a girl. I can see pros and cons of both. Boys come with challenges of their own; they’re often rowdy, usually more aggressive, and can be just as moody teenagers as girls can. Boys are also expected to fit specific gender roles and stereotypes, which is just as infuriating. Maybe this is just the liberal in me talking, though.

Next week I’ll hopefully have an update on what gender it is, as long as it keeps its legs wide open for all to see. Of course, the most important thing is that it is healthy and growing normally and all that jazz, and I’m looking forward to seeing the critter once more.

Week 10 (12 weeks pregnant): Hello, Is There Anybody In There?

After weeks of waiting, it was finally time to get our first ultrasound. This was of course the optional ultrasound to measure nuchal translucency (measuring the neck fold) to check for Down’s Syndrome, but I really wasn’t concerned that we’d be having a Down’s baby. I just wanted to see it! There was also a blood test I had to have taken, but that seemed a small price to pay to get to see the little bugger a little sooner (otherwise, I’d be waiting for the anatomy ultrasound, which is usually done between 18-20 weeks). Both Greg and I were nervous, excited, scared, and anxious about having it done. I was also sure I’d probably do the typical thing that most mothers do when they first see their baby and cry my eyes out, so I had stuffed a few tissues into my pockets in preparation.

Once in the room, I climbed up on the exam table, dropped trou, and the ultrasound tech squirted a bunch of the (thankfully pre-warmed) ultrasound gel on my stomach. She slid the transducer around on my belly for a moment, and then, there it was on the screen: our little dude or dudette, heart beating away at a good clip, just chilling there motionlessly with its arm up near its head in my uterus. There were no tears, but I couldn’t help but squeal a little and smile. “It’s really in there”, I thought. Up to this point, even knowing I was pregnant, none of it felt really real to me until that moment when I saw it. Greg was also grinning like the proud papa he is. Since the little critter was apparently sleeping, the ultrasound tech had to gouge my gut with the transducer to try and get the sleeping babe to move into the proper position to look at the back of its neck. At first, it didn’t want to move, only twitching slightly after being molested from outside the womb. We couldn’t help but giggle at how lazy he/she seemed to be. She continued to harass my fetus with the transducer until it finally moved, but had to keep nudging it because it wasn’t in a good position for her to get a good look at it; it didn’t help that it kept settling into its little cozy spot that it seems to prefer. Finally, she was able to get the pictures she needed, after probably about 20 minutes of jabbing my gut, which was very sore in the following days. I jokingly asked her if she could take a look between the legs to see if she could see anything, and she obliged. Fetal genitals are still a little ambiguous at 12 weeks, so she couldn’t say for sure what it was (though I have my own suspicions, I’m not sharing until we know for certain). She printed off a picture, told me everything looked good, and then we were on our way.

The next day, we had a doctor’s appointment, and this time I got to meet Dr. Gingrich, who is my babydoctor, as opposed to Tammy, who I saw the first time and is a Clinical Nurse Midwife. I had to fill out a form outlining mine and Greg’s previous medical history, and the medical history of both of our families. I filled it out as completely and truthfully as possible, and made lots of comments in the comment boxes (for example, I put down that I had previously had issues with anxiety, but they had since resolved). There was also a survey I had to fill out that asked how you felt when you found out, and how the father felt when he found out. Also on the survey was a question asking if I was related to the baby’s father, which kind of took me aback. I guess they have to ask these things, but I wonder how often people mark “yes” on that question?

I was finally called into the back, where I was weighed (thanks to my morning sickness, I hadn’t gained any weight yet, which is good, considering my previous weight), gave a urine sample to check for protein and for urinary tract infection, and then led to the exam room, where the nurse took my blood pressure. When she first took it, it was marginally elevated (135/80-something), and she asked me if I’d had high blood pressure before (I haven’t). She let me relax for a moment after I told her I was just probably having a little “white coat syndrome” and then rechecked it, and it was 128/80-something, which is fine. Finally, I got to meet Dr. Gingrich for the first time, who is a slender, attractive blonde woman who looks to be in her 40’s, and also has more than a passing resemblance to Ann Coulter. Thankfully she’s a lot kinder and gentler than Ann Coulter, and she immediately set my mind at ease. We discussed my medical history and that of my family at length (which is chock full of Type 2 Diabetes and Breast Cancer; she urged me to get a BRCA DNA analysis, which I’m still considering), she listened to the heartbeat with the Doppler (which we got to hear also), and we were on our way out the door. I got a goody bag full of various things, including formula samples and a pregnancy journal. I like free stuff. Awesome.

That night, we traveled back to the old country to eat dinner with my family and to show them all my ultrasound picture. I couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride at showing them a picture of the little life that’s growing inside of me, and feel like I have finally joined the mother’s club, even though it will be a while before we meet Junior.