The Ultrasound through Daddy's eyes

So, we finally had an ultrasound scheduled to see Baby Voltron. (Um, hell-to-the-no. We will not be naming that child Voltron). As you can tell, the roles have reversed: I, Weaver, will be the one telling the story while Crystal will try to keep up. (Ass) The excitement is soon overcome by the reality of having to sit in a waiting room with a moody pregnant woman. That being said, they are nice enough to have a beautiful 300 gallon salt water aquarium stocked with fish and exotic coral. At least now I know where my money’s going. (They better have something for us to look at if they were going to make us sit there for a whole freaking hour. I still think they ought to give you those little coaster pagers like they do at restaurants and just beep you when they have a half-table ready. I told Weaver that they could totally capitalize on that by luring us through their gift shops to buy overly-priced walkers and home enema kits.) An hour (and a half) later, it was time for me to see my child for the first time (our child… like you are really the only one doing anything around here). Let me rephrase that…So it’s time for us to see Baby Voltron for the first time (ass…I hope you really do know that name is NEVER going to happen). We’ll see…especially whenever you’re drugged up on that table. (Moving along)

Once again, we are taken down a long dark hallway and asked to pee in a cup (I didn’t have to pee in a cup this time…just a regular bladder release so she could see the baby better). I just peed for fun. Upon entering the examination/ media room, we are greeted by our old friends: half-table and paper sheet. (I actually got a real sheet this time. Ain’t that some sheet? Ha) I sat down in front of a flat screen that was bigger than any I have ever owned (I also had my own flat screen, so I didn’t have to turn my head and strain my neck. Fancy) Thinking to myself that this was not going to be this bad, I soon realized this was no Super Bowl. (What the hell did you have to go through? I was the only one laying on a effing half table with cold goop all over my belly.) First, I watched Dahlia (the ultrasound technician) ask my beautiful Crystal to take off her negligee (she asked me to pull up my dress so she could have access to my belly), then she lovingly wrapped her in sheets of the finest linen (she let me cover up my fat preggo ass so I wouldn’t get cold), then for the climax, she began to slowly rub jelly all over my woman (it was the goop they put on your stomach for an ultrasound. You are so sick, Weaver. How can any of this possibly be sexy to you? I weigh 900 pounds and Dahlia is close to 60 years old.) 900 pounds of Sexy Mama and Dahlia is 29 when she is rubbing you with her love oil. (Once again…moving along.)

Dahlia did not remain my 2nd favorite lady for much longer. (We’ll get to that…tell them about seeing the baby first). Ok. She starts to move the thingy-ma-jigger (I also do not know what it is technically called…we will go with thingy-ma-jigger) around on the belly. Finally, Baby Voltron’s big screen debut, resembling any alien on the X-Files. (We are not naming the baby Scully or Molder either). Dahlia begins to point out key parts of interest on the baby, “Notice the thin skin on the back of baby’s neck and the already forming nasal plate…this is a good sign that the baby probably is not at risk for Down’s syndrome.” My key point of interest is “Oh my God, look at that…we’re having a boy!” To which Dahlia replies, “Um…that is just a leg. We won’t be able to tell the sex of the baby for 6 more weeks”. (Stay tuned…August 18th) She starts to label the legs and the arms. By the way, this is not a good time to ask the nurse if she can type the name Voltron over the baby’s head on the ultrasound picture. (Here we go again. I cannot take this guy anywhere.) This is the point when Crystal and I became monogamous again, because I broke up with Dahlia real quick. (I hope the readers know you are joking about this “You and Dahlia” relationship) I knew that was coming. Anyway, Dahlia decides that the baby needs to be in a different position (she had to take some kind of measurement that was important in determining the baby’s health risks). Regardless of that, now let me tell you how you reposition a baby. If I laid hands on my woman like that, I would go straight to jail. Then, Mr. Jez (that’s my daddy) would be paying me a visit and it wouldn’t be work related. In what looked like a serial killer with a knife, she repeatedly thrusts down and inward to the belly with her thingy-ma-jigger, (I still can’t recall its scientific terminology), tossing Baby Voltron wildly like a sailor on the open seas. (She was merely repositioning the baby by creating a gentle wave in the amniotic fluid). Gentle, my ass…we should name the baby Jonah. (Can I get that in writing? Anything is better than Voltron. All that aside, I could tell Weaver was pissed at Dahlia and was very proud of him for not jumping over the half-table to head-butt her.) And this is where the second half of my money goes: Enter Dr. Goodrum. “Nice to meet you, I’m Dr. Goodrum. Your baby looks great. We will see you again in 6 weeks. Goodbye”. Now, I’m not saying I’m a genius, but for $10,000, she better display a little more intelligence than that. (Seriously lady, give me a little something more.)

It is reassuring to know that there is only one Baby Voltron. (We are not having twins…whew!) And if it turns out anything like its father, the world will be a much better place. And more beautiful (I think I have to go throw up now).

knocked up on Mom's day

Weave and I (answering the request of Aunt Rachel) are going to start a blog about the baby. For those of you who don't know yet...I'm pregnant! YAY! We found out on Mother's Day that we are going to be parents (to a kid named Voltron...according to Weaver), and we couldn't be more excited.

My due date is January 18th (18 days too late for Weaver to claim on his income taxes). In case you haven't picked up on it yet...everything in parentheses are comments that Weaver is making me enter. Apparently, that is how this blog will continue. You readers will soon find out that he is the more witty of the two of us. Luckily, I'm the more awesome (and cuter) of the two of us, so it all evens out.

Let's begin with our first doctor's appointment... All who know me know that I despise doctors, dentists, and mechanics... The fact that I even made a doctor's appointment in a timely fashion was a miracle. Clearly, choosing your OB/Gyn is a very important step. I started asking all the girls at work whom they chose for their birthing experiences. Most of them told me that I must call Dr. Mike. Ok...so do I really want to put my child's future in the hands of a doctor who isn't even professional enough to use his last name? It's not like he is friggin' Madonna or anything. Plus...I'm not really sure that I want another man's head up my twee -twa. Then they told me that Dr. Mike was hot (hot for a 50 year old). I don't think he is all that handsome (but his wallet is pretty good-lookin'). Anyway, I decided to go with Dr. Vandaele instead. She is a very handsome French woman (that hates French Fries and anything else that is good to eat) that chooses to be referred to using her last name.

As Weaver and I get to Dr. Vandaele's office, the first forms of torture begin: 1) that damn weighing machine 2) pissing in a cup. Let's address number 1... like I really need Nurse So-and-So screaming my weight across the office for "charting purposes". She notices my disapproval and explains that it doesn't matter because I'm pregnant and I am supposed to be heavier than normal. You would think she would understand that you probably weigh-in at the same poundage when you are 4 weeks pregnant since a seed with eyeballs isn't that heavy. We will now refer to her as Nurse Bitch. Number 2... I don't have a weenus...peeing in a cup is hard for a girl, especially since I am tired and dizzy and nauseous. As I begin to sit on the toilet, I start to think of all the other girls with bad aim that have done the same thing on this toilet...I opt for squatting instead. Now, I'm not a math teacher, but squatting + peeing in a cup = disaster (comic relief for Weaver).

At this point... we are given our own room with one of those fancy half-tables (complete with stirrups). No, I did not let Weaver play on the table first (you gotta tell 'em about the view). In the examination room, with one wall full of windows facing a marina, Nurse Bitch tells me to undress and put on the haute couture paper gown and leaves. Great...I really want a bunch of sailors seeing my goodies. She assures me that the windows are mirrored on the outside so they can't see in. As if Little Miss Pee-in-this-cup really cares about preventing any future humiliation. She closes the door and I just stand there staring at the napkin that is supposed to cover my size E boobs. Yeah right. (At this point, I am asked to turn around and not look. Like I haven't seen it before. How does she think she got into this condition anyway?) I politely ask Weaver to turn around before the costume change begins. He expressed his disbelief and confusion while I expressed that fluorescent lighting is not as flattering as a dark bedroom and lying flat on my back. As I suspected, the Charmin did absolutely nothing for my figure. Maybe it's mostly because when I laid down on the half-table, my boobs fell over into my armpits and ripped at the seems of the paper shirt (I like paper shirts, especially in a room kept at 40 degrees below freezing). I tried to pull the paper shirt closed only to rip a chunk out of the front. Sigh. (Do you think the paper shirt will catch on?) Don't think it has a shot in hell, Weave. (I can dream)

Let's discuss Weaver's point of temperature. It was a fucking artic zone in that room and the paper shirt did nothing to ward off polar bears, penguins, or frost bite (I didn't know you thought of me as a polar bear, babe). Fortunately, Nurse Bitch gave me a paper blanket to "cover" my lower half. I think Weaver got to see more plumber's crack than he bargained for in that room. (It was like a Roto-Rooter Convention). While freezing off my lady bits, Weaver began to try to distract me by reading all of the pamphlets in our goody bag. I, not being in a good mood due to temperatures comparable to that of dry ice, began to visualize telling Weaver "Who the EFFFF cares about keeping 'viable cord blood'?" I refrained from saying that out loud since I could see that he was excited (and the best boyfriend/father/good looking guy/ etc. a girl could ever have).

Dr. Vandaele finally showed up about an hour later and began going over medical history. She also felt it would be a great idea to talk to me about my weight-gain and diet. I knew I didn't like doctors. She started with the usual "lots of veggies", "2 servings of palm-sized meat a day"... I of course wanted to respond with "Whose palm? Like...my palm? or Andre the Giant's palm?" Instead I decided to behave. I wish I wouldn't have because she continued to limit my favorites. No raw oysters, no martinis...blah blah blah. Does this French Skeez ever shut up? She even mentioned "few breads and grains." I whispered a question to Weaver "Think she would be alright with me eating baguettes?" (Bonjour je m'appelle I like to eat real food. 'Comment allez-vous ?' That's French for 'Shut up, Doc...I've got to live with this woman') ... All the while this waif is sitting in front of a book that is titled French Women Don't Get Fat. Get that out of my face, Lady. This is America...in case you haven't heard... We eat food here and lots of it.

It was time for the pelvic exam. I warned Weaver to stay on the side of the table opposite my Pikachu (I was glad when I heard the cranking). Shut up, ass. Nurse Bitch was back to help French Skeez and they told me to scoot down and spread 'em. I felt uncomfortable with the tag team, but did as I was told. The cold, metal duck-billed platypus quickly became an enemy of mine. The sounds of cranking were not reassuring. I wanted to scream out that it was not supposed to stretch that way. French Skeez continued to repeat "Relax". Are you kidding me? My huge pregnant ass is half hanging off the table, my paper shirt is ripping even more, my boyfriend is leering at my baguettes that are falling out, and I have two non-friendly ladies staring closely at my cookie. How in the hell am I supposed to relax? If I strain anymore, I'm gonna spit out an embryo. I manage to actually begin breathing again when she announces, "this is my finger". Yeah...felt that. Then Nurse Bitch shows me the other S & M tools they will be using next (resembling a weapon that would be unimaginable in any horror movie villain's mind). I still think this spiky pinecone on a stick thingy is one of the WMDs that Little Bush has been looking for... Not surprised that a Frenchy brought it in. (I think she thinks I'm hot) Shut up, Weave...she chose to stare at lady bits all day long. Do you really think you are her type? (Will you marry me?) No. (Sorry Mr. and Mrs Jez)

After the Great Cervix Scraping of 2009, I was allowed to put on my real clothes. (At this point, I started to realize just how little a man's role in child birth is. No questions about my medical history, no needles poking me for blood, and for some odd reason...I'm denied the pleasures of cold, steel tools on my genitals.) They showed me to the lab where they drew about 20,423 vials of blood. Ok, I'm exaggerating a little bit, but Billy Bob and Angelina could have had a jewelry-making fest in there.

I could tell my sweet sweet Weaver was feeling left out... I knew a job for Daddy. Straight to the finance office where Molly told us that we would be paying them thousands of dollars to pull something out of my vagina. I made sure Weaver knew that this would be his responsibility. He smiled... (I'm still wondering how much I get paid for my seed) Ha.

*Serious Note to all: I really do like Dr. Vandaele and her nurse...(and sometimes Weaver). It is just much more hilarious to make fun of them in these situations. All three of them are doing a great job (especially the love of my life, the joy of blah blah blah...I'm too tired to be funny right now)

Peace out for now. (Later)