Today's title happens to be the name of one of my favorite Mel Brooks movies. I need a laugh. And I need a laugh because I am crazed and jangly with nerves and anxiety.
Sometime this week, assuming there was enough fetal DNA to extract in my blood sample, and assuming there were no other unforeseen lab errors, I will learn the likely fate of this pregnancy. My 11-week fetus is the size of a lime. That's a pretty significant-sized fruit, right? Every day I become more and more accustomed to being pregnant, grabbing my belly, unwittingly basking in the love I feel for this growing life inside of me. There has been so much deja vu this go around - harkening back to my first trimester with Niblet - which makes the prospect of learning a poor outcome just horrifying.
I am also *just* beginning to show. Husband and I attended a rather fancy dinner party thrown by my employer. When we got home that night, he says, "I think you're showing" - Ummm, you couldn't mention this before I chose the dress??? Sure enough, I saw a photo of myself tagged on facebook, and yup, much to my dismay I do look kinda knocked up. "Maybe I just looked a little chunky?" I asked Husband. Nope, being a dance instructor with ordinarily decent abs, I apparently look like someone with a bump. For contrast, I was able to hide Niblet from the world until I was maybe 5 months along.
When I am not literally passing out from exhaustion (I suffer from what I call "the sleepies" just as I did with Niblet at this stage in her development), I try to throw myself into work and zumba. Anything to avoid turning over possible conversations in my mind when the genetic counselor calls.
"I have bad news" the imaginary call begins.... and I envision scrambling to cancel meetings in order to schedule an emergency CVS procedure to confirm the Panorama test results...
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