I pressed. I felt. I measured. I found it! And then I looked down and yelled, "Oh, no, it's only 2 fingers below! I have a giant monster baby!"
"What's this here?" she asked me.
"And my finger plus your two fingers equals...?"
GIANT MONSTER BABY!
My hobby is frustrating health-care professionals. Anyway, I asked a million questions, and she told me my uterus is the size of a small watermelon right now, and Sluggo (according to Babycenter) is the size of a turnip, so apparently I can make some kind of weird stew. I asked, "So am I feeling the baby?" and she said, "What did I just tell you?!" So I said, "Okay, so that's my uterus, what is all this?" (Cue jiggly-wiggly activity.)
"Oh, that?" Brief pause. "Fat and intestines."
Anyway, she took out the Doppler thingie (I totally want to steal one of these), and we listened to the heartbeat, and as usual I melted into tears when I heard it. Like clockwork, I do this. When I start feeling the kicking, I'm going to be a mess! The funny part was that it kept going "swish, swish, swish, swi-THUD! swish, swish, THUD! swish, THUD!" Apparently this was the kicking. And apparently this was a LOT of kicking. So: this should be interesting. Apparently I'm birthing a Rockette.
The worrisome part is that my blood pressure went a little higher. We checked it again at the end of the appointment, and ... higher still. This I don't like. But I can't get anyone to tell me quite what to do. The midwife said get more exercise, go to prenatal yoga, meditate. Online people said to cut down on salt and "try to relax." And I'm sitting here convinced I'm going to have a stroke. Of course, about a half hour ago I got ravenous and ate peanuts and a pop-tart. Clearly I've got my child's best interest in mind... gah! I feel like a polluted well.
It'd be easy if I could just blame my workplace, and they HAVE been riding me like I'm Secretariat. But I had high blood pressure before. I have to do what I can; I just don't quite understand what that might be (besides lay off the fricking dry roasted peanuts, dummy). Staying up till 2am working on freelance assignments is also probably not ideal. Hoo, boy, I need to get a handle on things.
Anyway, my stomach's been in an uproar all day, even before I ate crap. And I've been hoping and planning for a sextacular romantical evening. I should walk home and sweat all these toxins out of my system!
Ha. That was a joke, Sluggo. Mommy's not going to make us walk up the big, mean hill.