I write this post from the passenger seat as we drive home from our 5-day San Diego road trip honeymoon. The trip was fantastic, and I’ll be honest: I would go anywhere with this man I now call my husband, but hey, the palm trees and lush surroundings didn’t hurt either.
I am on the eve of my 22nd week of this pregnancy and feeling every kick, nudge, and punch this baby girl is giving me.
Yes. Baby girl.
Back when I was 18 weeks exactly, we went in for the formal ultrasound. The plan was that we wanted the ultrasound tech to write the baby’s gender inside the gender-appropriate greeting card, seal it, and we would reveal at our Las Vegas wedding the following weekend. We originally were going to hold out on gender until delivery, but as someone who has seen her fair share of OB midterm ultrasounds, I had a sneaky feeling that I would be able to identify parts or a lack thereof upon a quick look.
I was correct.
During the ultrasound, I kept quiet, but knew as the tech moved the transducer along my abdomen, that I was going to get a good look. I don’t know HOW I knew this, but I did.
The tech took her requisite measurements, looking at the brain, heart, long bones, major organs, spine, nuchal fold, face, and fingers and toes. She then made her way south below the abdomen of the baby.
The next view I saw was the classic “frog” position. Looking up from the bottom of baby, I saw two legs spread at approximately 45 degrees from each other. In between baby’s legs was nothing but three bright white lines.
Three lines. Clear as a bell. Couldn’t possibly miss it. Well, let me rephrase that: I couldn’t miss it.
I peered over at James and whispered,
“It’s a girl.”
The tech upon hearing me, just smiled and didn’t say anything. Now that I was pretty certain of baby’s parts, I asked the tech to take a longer look.
She did. She said, ” I was about 90-95% certain of gender before you said something, but now I’m thinking more like 99%.”
So there you have it. A baby girl will grace us come February. Pink, it is. I admit I was a bit thrown at first. I had a boy the first time around. This was a whole different, potentially dramatic development.
In the end, I remembered what a good friend had told me a few weeks prior: “I hope you have a girl. The world needs more bad-ass women.”
She’s right.
So, the pregnancy continues. I am on the cusp of my 22nd week, feeling great, albeit a bit fatter than I like. My belly is swelling along with my ankles, and my poor legs have ballooned to something rather large and lumpy. I admit it: I never wear shorts. I’m too self-conscious of my legs at this point. I will wear maternity bathing suit on a handful of occasions, but not without a serious self pep-talk beforehand.
Hopefully, this physical transformation is temporary, and the weight, roundness, and fullness will gradually subside after baby. I’ll do my best, but in the end, this sweet girl is beyond worth a few new dimples on my thighs and a new highway of varicose veins on my calves.
The pregnancy has been pretty routine thus far, with exception of a week where I was swollen more than usual and contracting erratically a wee bit. Doc immediately modified my work schedule, and it has made all the difference.
So, now I spend my days becoming increasingly excited about meeting this new little one, and of course buying pink everything for the first few months to get it out of my system.
And, somehow I think baby will be ready to meet us, too.
As if to say yes, she’s kicking me again.
