Womb with a view

Horrible title to this post, I apologize. We just had a new 4D ultrasound today, and everything looks great. The doctor asked for this repeat visit, since they couldn't view all the chambers of the heart that they wanted to last time at Fancy University Hospital. This time, we went to Fancy University Hospital's Satellite Office nearer to us.

Unfortunately, our appointment coincided with two events, (1) our second house showing, which wasn't a big deal, and (2) The Complete Collapse of Civilization For No Particular Reason, which almost interferred seriously with our schedule today.

I should back up. We started the morning with a "Realtor Tour," when 17 (we counted) realtors came through our house to get a general impression of the place, and hopefully get a sense which of their clients would want to buy it. I tended to like the affect of the 50ish, polished, professional, manicured women who looked to have a couple decades' experience in the biz, but we're sticking with young Geena Davis. Although she's been at it only 5 years, she's a straight-shooter, deep into the technology end of home selling (she's done great ads for us on the web, in flyers, brochures, and slick mailings), and has a good vibe. Weirdly (given her age) she had gall bladder surgery today, but she still returned two emails. Man, that's dedication.

As part of our home-showing drill, we spoiled Caesar and Lulu by buying two cages designed for medium-sized dogs (I went with the "1630," btw, which is built for a 40-pound dog, so not bad for a cat). The cages are a necessity, since whenever anyone opens the front door, the cats torpedo outside, throwing themselves into shrubs, attempting murder of rabbits, etc. With an afternoon showing scheduled, we safely ensconced the cats into their studio apartments, gave them their wiggleworms, and left for the ultrasound.

I hit red lights every ten feet for twelve miles until there were suddenly *no* lights. We allowed ourselves plenty of time, but traffic was now at a complete standstill. For some unknown reason, every signal was nonfunctional, columns of cars were paralyzed at intersections in every direction, and cops were only sporadically waving people along. I don't handle traffic well, so I'm pretty sure I had an aneurism or two on the way. We arrived 25 minutes late and saw the tech heading down the hallway to leave, but we managed to have the screening regardless. I learned that those machines take a while to boot up once they're completely shut down.

The doctor (a new one we've not met) was there right away and exuded all the great qualities that were completely absent from me over the previous hour: sanity, equilibrium, perspective, and warmth. I joked to Marci later that she should probably have kids with him, instead. He had such a zen-like disposition, I couldn't picture him yelling obscenities at his steering wheel. "He's sixty," she said.

Dr. i explained that Marci is at slightly increased risk of having an infant with Down Syndrome, given her age. I'm very familiar with all of those facts, since my sister was born with this genetic disorder. However, my mom had her at around 27, and, regardless, it's spontaneous and doesn't run in families. He asked if Marci would be having an amnio, and we said that the results would be irrelevant, since we would obviously keep the baby either way. I told him about my sister, and he said, "They're fine. Down Syndrome children are fine." Besides, he said nothing they've seen so far indicates DS for us, anyway.

Although we've had our own share of tests, I think it's psychologically dangerous for test-mania to consume parents-to-be. It only creates an illusion of control. After all, how do you test to find out if the kid is going to ride in a car with drunk friends? Or dive headfirst into the shallow end? Or play that junior high game where people choke each other until they pass out? This might be an important formative period for my own habit of mind regarding Peanut's well being; I might as well start working on my mellow now.

The images, again, were stunning to us, and they gave us about five. The Peanut weighs 2 pounds at 24 weeks (how do they get weight with an ultrasound? That one baffles me . . .) and the doctor said he looks like a "carbon copy" of me. I guess I can kind of see it, too.

One image we just call "grumpy;" Marci thinks she sees the closest likeness to me in that one.