It’s Thursday. That means its my Doctor’s appointment. Normal pregnant woman get very excited about these days. It’s when they get to hear their baby’s heartbeat, check on his/her progress, talk about things like round ligament pain and the best heartburn remedy. It’s when fellow pregnant ladies in their yoga pants smile at you in the waiting room while reading magazines entitled, “American Baby” drinking electrolyte water. I hate Thursdays. I imagine all kinds of horrible things that could have already gone wrong with Ellie. Part of me is petrified that he will not find her heartbeat. That he will tell me that she will not move out of her transverse position making it impossible for a natural delivery. That I will have, officially gained 50 pounds and have become a prime candidate for Gestational Diabetes. He will somehow find out I hardly take my vitamins- I know, I know. It’s terrible- and that will result in my daughter having some kind of rare form of brain cancer. Or lines her up to be the next uni-bomber. Or worse. The first, successful, female, white rapper. So help me God. I hate Thursdays.
So, I’m trying to gear myself up. I drank lots of water to stay hydrated, so perhaps he won’t yell at me for letting my feet swell. If he shakes his head at the scale, I’ll just tell him that I haven’t been able to go to the bathroom in at least 4 days. That should account for the extra poundage. I have pre-planned our dinner menu so there can be no emotional binge eating. And, I’m leaving the rest up to God. Even the white rapper thing. I’m sure I’d love her regardless.