What I thought would be a typical check-up at my OB/GYN's office turned out to be slightly non-typical. Everything was as expected at first. The perky nurse asked how I'm feeling ("Tired, but otherwise fine, thanks."), took my blood pressure (normal), weighed me (not gonna admit what I'm up to, even though I have a perfectly good reason) and deposited me in an exam room.
Then the doctor came in. He asked if I had any questions ("Can I please fill this prescription so I can breathe?"), looked over my chart ("Looks like you're at 33 weeks." "Yup.") and told me to climb up on the exam table. He pulled out his trusty measuring tape and I pulled up/down my various layers of maternity clothes so he could see/feel my belly. He felt around for my uterus, measured it, felt around again, remeasured it, felt around YET again and re-remeasured it. "Hmmm," he said.
Just as I was about to yelp, "What?! What's up with my baby?!" his phone rang. If he were anyone else but my doctor, I would have picked it up and thrown it across the room, but I suppose that doctors need to answer calls while at work. He finished his phone business and turned back to me.
"You're baby's measuring at 29 weeks. Is this your first?"
"No, my third."
"How big were the other two?"
"My first was 6 pounds, 12 ounces. My second was 7 pounds, 9 ounces."
"Is this one a boy or a girl?"
"Girl."
"Hmmm. Girls tend to be a little bit smaller, and your first baby was a little small. It's probably nothing, but I'd like to make sure that this baby isn't TOO small. Is it okay if we do another ultrasound?"
"Yessir, doctor, sir. Whatever you say." (Or something like that.)
So away I went to the ultrasound room.
My super-ultra-perky ultrasound technician took one look at me and my chart with the "growth assessment" sticky note attached and said, "Dr. Baker just likes to be careful. My bet is that your baby's fine. You're just tall."
I lay down on the table, once again burrowed through my layers to expose my belly, and received a generous helping of "slime," as the technician referred to it. She whizzed through everything: "Whatcha having. A girl? I'll double-check that for ya. Water looks goods. Baby's sitting low. Head down. Yup, definitely a girl. Wow. You're baby's head is big. Can't see her face. Her arms are crossed in front of it. Femur's the right size. She's right on target. Right now she weighs 4 pounds, 10 ounces. Due date doesn't change. She's just so low that her head is wedged in your pelvis. Everything's perfect."
Whew.
I didn't really expect anything to be wrong, but every "hmmm" from a doctor to a pregnant woman sends her into a tizzy. And as far as the head being wedged in my pelvis, I could have told you that. By the time I'm finished grocery shopping, I'm limping like an 80-year-old arthritic woman.
Only seven(ish) more weeks to go!