Yesterday, while walking back to my car, I was so busy angrily composing a post in my head about how much I despise our area Toys 'R Us -- and yet I love their store-brand diapers! fie! -- that I managed to open my car door directly into my face, smashing my sunglasses across the bridge of my nose, and I still have the faint imprint of a metal frame across my nose and forehead.
Oh! RIGHT. The ultrasound! I plum forgot.
Remember how I said I was so sure I was having a boy? With the dreams and the feelings and all? And then I thought it looked like a boy at 12 weeks but the Internet promptly smacked me down and said no, that there's a girl?
And so then I started to think maybe it was a girl, and we picked out a girl name, and I stressed about the color of our carseat and Jason and I eyed our niece's wardrobe over the weekend, like, SCORE, and then my ultrasound appointment was delayed forever and an hour this morning and two minutes before the doctor walked in I told Jason that I was returning to my earlier position of BOY.
Well, it had to be one of those two options, right?
We are indeed having ourselves another little boy. Which feels...intensely just right, to me. My boy, my boys, my whole pack of little guys.
He is measuring "slightly bigger than average," which is no shock to me and my 9 pound, 15 ounce track record, although this could simply be a due date malfunction, since I have always believed I'm about a week ahead of what the early ultrasounds indicated, and 21w1d lines up perfectly with my calculations.
He is breech, which is also no shock to me and my poor kicked-to-hell lower pelvic region. There's plenty of time for him to turn, I know (although his big brother remained solidly in the head-down sunnyside-up position from 18 weeks on), but...uh...well, we're just gonna keep an eye on those growth percentiles before we get too yappy about birth plans and all that.
He is perfect, though, in every way. Perfectly healthy, perfectly just right.