Two glasses of grape juice, two 20oz bottles of water and some random coconut water. I was trying to fill my bladder so that the view of the Spitfire would be clearer.
Based on the positioning of the uterus and baby, some women need not torture themselves for an ultra sound. I am not one of them.
So, having filled my proverbial tank, I parked (for the first time!) in Expectant Mother Parking at the hospital and (as smoothly as possible) walked to my appointment.
My Observations
1. Ultra sound gel is gross. It's like having a large man sneeze on your belly. Over and over.
2. The pressure exerted on a full bladder for prolonged measurements and viewing must rank up there with water boarding or skin removal with a carrot peeler.
3. If you are having a spitfire, your measurements will take considerably longer than most because the baby will NOT stay still enough. This baby was NOT having any of that shit. It refused to give a profile look - instead looking angrily into the source of the pressure. Smart. And scary.
4. When you are finally allowed to evacuate your bladder, you can't because you've been holding it back so long that your muscles are frozen with a mixture of fear and loathing. Right.
Everything is where it should be. The gender is known. You get to know. Eventually.
Did I mention the gender reveal party this Sunday (the 2nd) at 4pm? I didn't?
Now you know. Bring a dish and your own booze. It'll be fun. But, only if you RSVP.
. . . trust me. It's not really baby-centric. I just want an excuse to get together - eat, drink and jaw-jack.
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