“It’s fun being a girl,” my obstetrician said as she handed a peach-colored tissue to me.
I nodded and snorted and hoped all my teary blinking was repelling the mascara from my eyes. A minute earlier, I hadn’t been crying.
I heard Mr. Baby’s heartbeat gallumping in the high 150s. Blood pressure was excellent at 106/54. Weight gain: Yes. Oh, yes. Passed my glucose screen at the last appointment with flying rainbow sparkly colors.
Before my appointment, I had an ultrasound which showed decent fluid and a balled-up baby, sitting breech at the moment. All the news points to a healthy little guy in there. He is measuring 1 week, 4 days ahead.
But I can’t shake the worry. It’s a battle I struggle with on a daily basis. When the OB breezily suggested I could wait four weeks until my next appointment, I fell apart. A different OB, who I had seen at my previous appointment, said I’d start coming every two weeks. I was counting on that. I need to check in on Mr. Baby in an official capacity. Two weeks felt reasonable. Four felt like prison sentence.
So I cried, which surprised me. It surprises me that it surprised me.
It’s fun being a girl, she said.