I've been a bad blogger lately because I've been so ding-dang-dobbly nervous. Really, it's a miracle that I only write like Ned Flanders because I feel like talking like him too. Such is my nervous energy. In the past week you could find me A) pretending that everything's normal and I'm not pregnant and therefor not headed towards the temple of doom or B) happily focusing on my low-grade nausea and poking at my boobs. There's not much to share about those varied experiences. I've had an absurdly short fuse with J which I feel both bad about and occasionally justified for. Doesn't he understand that I need to be completely immobile on the couch watching the Kardashians and knitting* between weekly ultrasounds? Doctor's freaking orders.
So, today was a big day. The day where everything fell apart last time (though things were admittedly completely in pieces long before that), the 6w3d ultrasound. This time however was so wonderfully different. There was a fetal pole with a heartbeat that you could see and hear. It was amazing. Now, as I said before, two pink lines + an ultrasound do not a baby make. But a heartbeat is a huge leap from where we were before and I'm doing my best to simply revel in it.
I also was asked the most beautiful questions an infertile can be asked, "Do you have an OB selected?" Who, me? Why would I need one of those? I don't even have a vagina, I have a convenient charging port for the ultrasound wand! I was told to make an appointment in one month because I could (still) be pregnant in one month. Son of a diddly. There's Ned again.
Poignant questions: Why is human gestation a million years? Is hysteria good for fetuses?
*No, I have not lost my infertile mind. I'm still knitting that summer sweater for myself despite the fact that it's late August. I'm not going to do anything reckless like knit a baby item. Geez.