Nothing against baby blogs. Because I love baby blogs. I read them all the time. I know more about complete strangers’ breast feeding habits than I should.
But, I don’t want my blog to be a baby blog. I mean, it’s about me after all. And I’m not a baby. Unless you catch me right after I wake up in the morning. Or right after I’ve discovered someone ate the last piece of cake. Or if you wait too long to feed me.
Now that I’ve got that disclaimer out of the way, I’m going to talk about my baby. I know, I know. I just said it’s not a baby blog. And it isn’t. I just want to tell you what a jerk this kid is already turning out to be.
You see, I had my monthly appointment with my midwife and everything was going fine. They weighed me and I chose not to look, just like normal. Then I peed in a cup, and all over my hand, just like normal. Amanda (my amazing midwife) asked me all the standard questions and I answered them, like normal.
Then it was time to hear the baby’s heartbeat. The best part about these appointments. And she couldn’t find it. She poked and prodded for what seemed like an hour, and nothing. And of course, I’m freaking out on the inside. Something’s wrong. And I’m here all alone.
When she stopped poking around my belly and helped me sit up I asked quite meekly “Is this…normal?” I was expecting her to say no. That it was probably a disaster. I was likely going to leave there a broken, mess of a woman. Someone hold me.
Instead, she sweetly told me not to worry. It’s not uncommon for everything to be fine but for some reason not be able to locate the heartbeat. Then she lead me over to the ultrasound room so she could get a look at what the baby was up to.
What she found was terrifying.
The baby was alive and well and karate chopping my uterus. It was scissor kicking my insides. It was head-butting me. It was so active that my midwife burst into hearty laughter, looked at me and said “Oh you’re in so much trouble when this baby gets bigger.”
I was elated. My baby is okay!
I was pissed. My baby is a total jerk!
Scare me half to death and then, quite literally, kick me while I’m down. Mamma doesn’t need a heart attack at 30 you tiny monster.
And here it is, looking quite innocent:
I know better though.