We went to Philly this weekend, y'all! And I hung out with Diana and I ate cheesesteaks and have lots of stories about it.
BUT FIRST, AN ENTRY I WROTE ON FRIDAY AND THEN NEGLECTED TO PUBLISH, FOR I AM THAT STUPID:
I had my second prenatal appointment today, in all its boringness. Three highlights:
The nurse called to me in the waiting area and told me I could go ahead and use the bathroom, which I thought was nice of her, as I ALWAYS have to use the bathroom. But it turns out that "go ahead and use the bathroom" is a secret OB code for "go pee in a specimen cup." I did not know this and did not pee in the specimen cup. The code was then explained to me and I was shown the self-serve specimen cup station that I am to familiarize myself with from now on.
All of this goes to prove what infertile women everywhere already suspect: THE PREGNANT WOMEN HAVE A SECRET CLUB AND LANGUAGE AND SPECIMEN CUP HANDSHAKE AND THEY WILL NEVER TELL YOU ABOUT IT. BWA. HA. HA.
After Specimencupgate, and my sincere promise that I would most certainly have to pee again by the end of my visit, I stepped on the scale.
Get this, I've LOST WEIGHT.
Despite my best efforts, and the efforts of about 346 orders of Chicken McNuggets and 143 bags of Doritos, I'm losing weight. The damned morning/afternoon/evening sickness has deprived my body of all the essential fatty goodness that one would usually get if one usually consumed eight or nine mini-Twix Bars every day. I'm wearing nothing but maternity clothes now and am actually sporting a noticeable little bump, yet the bump appears to contain nothing but featherdown pillows and air. Possibly helium.
Clearly, I need more milkshakes.
THEN, the doctor came in, revealed that the ultrasound place never sent over the ultrasound films or the ultrasound report, so he could not review it with me and tell me what a perfect and clearly indestructible embryo I'm carrying.
THEN, he whipped out the little doppler thingie.
Him: Now, it's probably too early to this to pick up the heartbeat, so don't panic if we can't hear it.
Me: Oh, I know. It's about a week or two too early. Is okay.
Him: Right. So don't panic.
Me: Right. Right right.
Him: *starts searching for heartbeat*
Me: *oh shit*
Him: Nope, too early. Next visit! Don't panic!
And that was that. Go pee in cup. See you in four weeks. Try to fucking eat something already.
Now I am at home, where I should be packing, but I am not packing, because I am TIRED and PREGNANT and need to have a good talk with my baby regarding the polite volume for one's heartbeat.
Hint: LOUD, MOTHERFUCKER.
Then I should pack. We're taking a weekend trip to Philadelphia, where we will be going to see Carbon Leaf with Diana, and staying in a nice hotel and eating lots and lots of room service. Hopefully. Because damn, I can throw up at home for FREE.
Also, Ceiba will be staying at a PET RESORT. No, seriously. Mostly because we totally forgot about her until like, yesterday, and our vet had no room to board her. So she's going to board at a place that sounds even nicer than our nice hotel. She's getting a SUITE, people. With rooms and everything.
I'm so excited for her. I wish I could send her with a camera to take pictures.
Max will be staying home alone, because I trust him not to throw loud parties.
Another reason I am not packing: delivery food trauma. Earlier this evening my stomach and I decided that the only thing I could eat tonight was paneer makhani from this one Indian restaurant near us. So we ordered, and it was delivered, and there was no paneer makhani. And I swear to God, I cried. And I said the f-word many, many more times than was really necessary. And then Jason sighed, put down his fork (they got HIS fucking food right, naturally), put on his coat and drove out in the cold to obtain my paneer makhani.
Welcome to pregnancy, baby. Isn't it the greatest thing EVER?