Halfway

. . . sort of. Today marks twenty weeks, which means that if Mini-Me appears on his/her due date (hah!) this pregnancy is half over. It also means that, should Mini-Me decide to appear this very afternoon, it’s not a miscarriage – it’s a premature birth. The reason for the distinction is that there is a chance (an EXTREMELY small chance) that a baby born this early would survive. That’s oddly comforting.

Also (you may have heard a hint of a rumour on the breeze about this) we find out the gender tomorrow (plus we’ll be reassured about the non-existence of a large variety of possible complications). By “we” I mean “CJ and I and various friends and relations”. I do promise to blog all next Wednesday – if not before. There will also be fresh Mini-Me pictures.

If you’re wanting gratuitous fat-belly shots (Mini-Me is now around 16cm from head to bum), just scroll down to the entries from yesterday and the day before. In the meantime, here’s some gratuitous cuteness from last night:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Last night I became concerned that I’ve felt only the occasional movement from Mini-Me – and I’d done a preliminary midday weigh-in yesterday that seemed to indicate I’d gained over two kilos (rapid weight gain can be a sign of something medically wrong – or it could mean I needed to drastically cut down on my chocolate). I had trouble going to sleep.

Sidebar: You know you’ve married well when you confess to your partner that you spent the last of the grocery money on a giant block of chocolate loaded with toffee-coated cashews and hazelnuts – and he says, “Oh good. I want our child to be eating nuts.”

Pregnancy is infamous for giving a girl peculiar dreams, and ondansetron/zofran has been giving me nightmares most nights. And so it was that I dreamt I accidentally went to a chemist for my ultrasound. All the various tests were done on my urine (“Does Mini-Me have spina bifida? Pee in this cup. Is Mini-Me a Rodent of Unusual Size? Pee in this cup.”) by incompetent and much-distracted trainees.

The final test – the one about gender – was fobbed off onto an extremely irritating child who desperately wanted some attention. So he took me on several epic mountain hikes, during one of which a friend of his fell off an especially treacherous cliff and was decapitated. This further delayed my stupid test, and I swear that kid was pleased.

I finally promised to play a game if he’d do the test first. I peed in a rather dirty plastic cup and he showed me the results sheet, which was gleefully flashing through possible options. Finally the whole thing lit up. . . and it was pink. It was a girl!

At this point my mother showed up and we fled the scene, shouting a cheerful goodbye to the abandoned brat. As we left, the severed head of the fallen hiker was making small talk with two others about the correct first aid procedure for decapitation (so THAT’S all right).

The End.

Kids, don’t do drugs.

I got up and weighed myself, and discovered I’d gained precisely half a kilo – the exact recommended amount. (I’m actually still more than two kilos lighter than I was at the beginning of the pregnancy.)

Then I crawled back into bed, and something under the donna poked me suddenly in the stomach – so suddenly and so distinctly that I yelped aloud (my first thought was, “Tentacle monster hidng under the covers! Aieee!”).

It was Mini-Me, of course.

Which doesn’t necessarily mean there WEREN’T tentacles involved. I assume that’s one of the things they check for at the 20-week ultrasound.