I've always had a really good chuckle about mothers and fathers who talk in terms of weeks, then months.
"How old is your kid?"
"He's 72 months old."
"Umm...so he's six?"
But that's how I'm talking these days because when people ask me how far along I am I don't say, "Oh just over four months." Instead I reply in terms of weeks because I'm not really that far along yet, and also the whole thing feels like it's gone quite quickly at this point so weeks seem a more appropriate measurement of time.
Well, except for if we're talking about last week because....HORRID.
It wasn't all bad.
However, there were some really bright spots that happened regarding the baby. The first thing was that when I went to the hospital on Sunday they wanted to hear the baby's heartbeat, and Dan and I hadn't heard that before as we've previously only had ultrasounds. When the nurse put the little heartbeat-pen-thingy on my stomach there was some really loud beating that seemed to jump off the walls and I exclaimed, "Wow, what a strong heartbeat! Way to go baby, beat on!" Then she laughed and told me that noise was actually my insides rumbling around.
Then I felt embarrassed for the decidedly unladylike commotion that my gut was making. How does one quiet their insides?
But soon enough a little sound of whoosh-whoosh-whoosh quietly filled the room with soothing reassurance and I almost cried. Instead Dan and I grinned at each other, neither of us still believing this is real.
But a lot of times I do believe.
The second cool thing was that when I saw my baby-doc on Wednesday she wanted to do a quick ultrasound to make sure the baby still looked like it was growing properly, and so quite unexpectedly I got to see the baby too and it sure has grown in a month. The baby's legs are chunking out and kicking around like little frog legs, its belly is beautifully round, it loves to keep its little hands by its face, and....it still won't show us its profile.
(Did I mention that time I had to hop around the doctor's office like a rabbit in order to get the baby to turn its head for us, and then it still wouldn't. Yeah.)
The third cool thing happened on the weekend, and I felt these tiny little flutters in my stomach and could have sworn they were the baby kicking. I got really excited about this until I remembered it's a bit uncommon to feel anything this early and maybe that fluttering was just my stomach rumbling out of general nausea and discomfort as Dan and I were watching Game of Thrones. Internet, have you seen this show? I assume you have because we're a little behind the times, but ACK. The gore, the sexually explicit content, the GORE. What I want to know is when I became so physically bothered by this sort of stuff because I don't have a problem with it--I'm not writing anyone a righteous letter condemning them to broadcasting hell, is what I'm saying. But for the past couple of years the only shows I've watched are Mad Men, Modern Family, Big Bang Theory, 30 Rock, and How I Met Your Mother. There is a decided lack of grown men chopping off a horse's head with a sword in these shows. I wasn't prepared!
Baby, did I feel you kick?
Or was it just my stomach groaning in horror over the sight of a woman eating a raw heart?
Probably wasn't you.
(And don't worry, I will have done something to my damn hair by the time we meet.)
It was a wonderful and reassuring week in the baby department, with maybe the only bleak moment happening when someone told me, "Sie sehr grosse!"
Grosse = Large, auf Deutsch.
"You're already so big!"
But that's another post.