June 29, 2011

Performing Esophageal Self-Inspections Since 2011

Remember that childhood story about a kid who's name was Alexander and his terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day? I LIVED THAT STORY YESTERDAY. And survived to tell you all about it because if any good can come of that day, it would be solely from the fact that I get to share it with all of you. As a result, my blog traffic goes up for the day since I actually found the motivation to publish, and thus I'm a little closer to being able to afford the baby carrier I've been lusting over for the past eight months. Plus, I save on therapy bills since a blog is much cheaper than a man in a white coat.

In other words, making lemonade out of lemons. Or finding the silver lining. Or my way of giving the universe The Bird after the way it massively screwed me over yesterday.

If we're going to be really honest, it all started on Monday night which ranked up there as a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad night for a whole variety of reasons that I'm not going to get into here. Mostly because I choose not to air my dirty laundry here for the whole of the English-speaking world to read. Unless, of course, you're reading about my boobs or nursing bras. In that case, AIR AWAY AND ENJOY THE BREEZE!

I awoke bright and early on Tuesday morning to the universe slapping me rudely in the face. It was the day of our second MFM appointment to make sure our baby was healthy and my husband woke up sick. It was no fault of his own, but really? Fever, chills, and a few shots of NyQuil meant that I would be attending our appointment solo.

I was feeling pretty low about not having my support system with me to go see the specialist because I am pregnant, hormonal, and have the slightest tendency to react to everything these days with SCREAMING! CAPITAL! LETTERS! so I went to take a shower. Just as I was rinsing my hair, I heard a banging noise over the baby monitor. These days, that brand of noise isn't particularly unusual, but when you're a mother, you quickly learn to recognize different TYPES of banging noises. When the decibel and pitch of the banging floats gracefully into your eardrums, it's instinct; you know if trouble is brewing.

Trouble had already been brewed. It had evolved from a single-celled amoeba, grown a pair of legs, and had begun calling itself Harry.

I could see over the video monitor that He Who Shall Henceforth Wear a Straightjacket had knocked down one of the pictures that hung on his bedroom wall. The banging noise? He was hitting the glass.

I channeled my inner high school track athlete and hurdled over the baby gate to get into the bedroom. I actually even started to scold the toddler for knocking down the picture when I noticed that the glass was already broken. And then I noticed THE BLOOD.

It's here that I should interject that I have recently become unable to actually see any blood without wanting to turn my stomach inside-out. This is a relatively new development for me and one that I'm blaming solely on pregnancy. Thankfully, I suppressed that urge, dragged my sick husband out of bed to clean up the broken glass, and whipped out my cheeriest YAY! LET'S WASH THE BLOOD OFF OF YOUR LEG! attitude to keep from scaring the toddler.

A squirt of soap and a band-aid later, he was good as new. Unfortunately, the same couldn't be said for Nathaniel's teddy bear who looked as though he was auditioning for Scream 5. Naturally, while I was attempting to wash the toddler's insides off of the bear's outsides, I had the sudden urge to perform a self-inspection on my esophagus.

Bye-bye breakfast.

Fast-forwarding through the next few hours which were blissfully uneventful, I headed off to our appointment by myself. Yes, a few tears were shed, but my painfully full bladder (thank you, Diet Coke) was distraction enough and before I knew it, I had the wand on my belly. Seeing the baby was great and we even got some encouraging news- right now, we're in the 55th percentile for size which means that I am slowly becoming optimistic that I won't be pushing Andre the Giant out of my vagina in August.

But (and yes, you knew there would be a big, hairy "but") the universe likes to screw with me. I've found this to be especially true on days where everything is spiraling downward so quickly that my life starts flashing before my eyes.

The lowest point of my day came during those few, delightful moments as I watched my baby move on the screen. The technician thoughtlessly commented that the baby's knees (saying "his/her" which I've lovingly edited out for all of you) were pulled way up as she tried to get measurements of both feet. And yes, that came after she checked for gender and I told her that I REALLY DIDN'T WANT TO KNOW.

While it's admittedly convenient to find out if I'll be able to buy headbands or if I will be up to my eyeballs in testosterone in a few short weeks, I was counting on that surprise as one thing to get me through labor. Waiting eight months only to find out a few weeks early turned out to be the cherry on top of my terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day sundae.

So the moral of this story is that you should never attend an ultrasound appointment when you're having a bad day. And a bad day sundae always tastes better once you've drowned it in a potentially heart attack-inducing amount of chocolate sauce.


  1. Boo to your very bad day and that very evil ultrasound tech! I hope today gets better and that you were able to drown your sorrows in a big bowl of ice cream to wipe away the memories of the bad day sundae you had!

  2. Oh man...what a day you had! Maybe the ultrasound tech was being generic!

  3. Sorry you had such a rough day!! That's such a bummer she slipped when you were so close!!

  4. Thanks guys. I'm still feeling kind of bummed that we found out early, but we're trying to make the best of it around here by telling the toddler that he has a little brother or sister and trying to teach him some baby names.

  5. I am so sorry that the tech slipped. I can't imagine :( Hope things are looking up!