Tripping The Life Unbalanced

That’s the sex of our baby.  Undetected.  Not known.   No legs uncrossed, apparently.

I had the 20 week ultrasound last week and waited on the edge of my ever-lovin’ seat last weekend for the midwife to call and give me the news.   You know what sucks the big one?  The system in Ontario where the ultrasound technician CAN’T give you any details and you have to wait for your midwife/doctor to tell you a few days later.  It’s perhaps the only thing I regret when choosing a midwife over a OB – at least some of the OBs have the machines in their offices and you can ask them questions right there and then.  In my case, I always get the seemingly unfeeling cold techinicians who could give a rat’s ass that this baby actually lives inside me and therefore I might be allowed a comment or two about how the baby is doing.  Instead, I have to listen to them talk into their microphone about baby’s spine and heart and get absolutely no explanation whatsoever.  And then at the end of this, I get the cursory look at the baby for a few seconds while the technician says things like “ok?  ok?  Feel better now?” 

Blah.

Anyway, the midwife finally called a few days later to give me the report and yes, as the title suggests, the sex came back as “undetected.” Apparently the technician didn’t get a good enough picture of the baby, so they are recommending I go back at 24 weeks to get another one.   The report said that the baby “looks” healthy, but they can’t be sure with the crappy shots they got of it. Which of course gets me a little pissy because that technician could have said something like “hey, I can’t seem to get a good picture of important things like your baby’s heart – can you jump around a bit or drink this orange juice?”  And yes, we did want to know the sex of the baby, but really I would have settled for a concrete answer about its health.

So blah.

But other than that, things are good.  Baby is moving all the time, I am starting to be able to eat dinner again, and we bought a new couch.  In that order – that is how I am evaluating my life these days.  Baby steps, people, baby steps.

I’m on another can’t-stop-the-damn-song train.   I’ll have a song in my head and it wrecks havoc on my life.  It plays like a sound track in my dreams – except that it’s just one song over and over again.  And, there’s an extra bit of crazy I throw in to whatever song is on constant repeat – I purposely mix up words and add in new lyrics.  I know, how crazy am I?  (Stand back, friends, obviously I trump any of your wild antics).  One summer I had the song “Daydream Believer” in my head, and every time I got to the chorus I would think “cheer up, Sneaky Dees.”  (um, yes.  That’s a bit of a shout out to my university, Kensington Market days when my best friend and I had to have an apartment that was in “stumbling distance” of a certain Toronto watering hole).  All of this to say I do this to MYSELF and it drives me bananas.

The song of the day now is Feist’s “I Feel It All.”  But yet I can’t stop singing “I feel the boy, I feel the boy” everytime.  And that is solely because I am convinced that this alien inside me is a boy.  It feels boy. It moves boy.  It makes me think boy.

It’s a boy, right?

Maybe it’s just that I’m surrounded by so much pink and glitter these days with my firstborn that I’m wishing for something that isn’t there.  And hey, it can always be a tomboy, right?

I have my next ultrasound in a few weeks, and we’ll see if the spawn cooperates and lets us see the goods.