Friday, March 29, 2013

It's Friday and I'm Pregnant: Week 24 ...

I'm sprawled on a table with my dress up to my bra and my jeggings are below a hemisphere of my belly that I haven't seen in weeks. The doctor's got this device that looks like the pride of Fisher Price and he's rolling an end of it along my bump. He's checking for her heartbeat and it's a garbled metronome with sudden bursts, like holding a microphone into the wind.

"She's moving around a lot," he tells me. "I don't know if I'm going to be able to get this. ... Did you feel that?"

I shake my head. Not this time.

I feel her often, though, and not at all predictably. She had, unfortunately, ants in her pants during a big country concert last week, but totally redeemed herself when she also boogied to the sounds of "The Hobbit." I take this to mean that, in utero, she's already more open-minded and well-rounded than most human beings.

He tells me he's going to have to get her heartbeat off the umbilical cord. She's just moving too much.

"She's wild," he says.

And I beam. She's wild. The Powerful Baby Girl is wild. I picture mud-caked hands, hair like weeds and a wicked grin as she constantly asks, fiercely, "But, why?"

Of course I assume this all means something. That her ear buds will leak the sounds of contemporary country. That she will like tales of fantasy with inhuman heros who travel by hairy feet. That she will boot the ball further than anyone on the soccer team, including the coach. I have to latch on to these somethings since I don't know anything beyond the a painting-like image that is a rough approximation, from an ultrasound, of her face. And, of course, what I've gleaned from Chuck's very confusing speech about dominant and recessive genes.

This beaming is dangerous. I mean, he's not complimented her, he's just stated a fact: Your baby moves around so much that I am inclined to use the word "wild" to describe her. If you want to get real specific about it, when I was a kid "wild" was a teen in dirty denim smoking cigarettes behind the Jiffy Mart. This beaming shows I'm already blind.

This beam, I'm afraid, is an "Our unborn baby is on the wild honor roll" bumper sticker on the back of our responsible car.


Anonymous said...

You're one of the last ones standing. A blog that I still read after all these years and I'm almost ashamed to admit I teared up reading something you wrote a while back when you were talking about your PBG. Let it be known that I tend to unwittingly stop reading when a blog author gets pregnant, but I'll read as long as you write. I'm so very happy for you, semi-stranger. -Blaire

Christa said...

Aw man, thanks! I hope I don't Mommy Blogger all over the place. You'll have to reign me in if I get crazy.

Guacaholic said...

I love Pregnant Christa. It's really fun reliving a first pregnancy through you. You're making me *almost* want a second. Well played.

Christa said...

Evil chuckle. ;)