Situation Normal

Due perhaps to the existence of a partial feed, I had the impression that some of you thought the last post was a little… cliffhanger-like. I have to nod in judicious, satisfied agreement with this. I wrote events up precisely as they occurred, and it certainly felt like pretty edge-of-seat stuff to the key protagonists, so I’m delighted you were able to fully participate. I have been more cautious with my titling this time – but really, what’s a bit of anxiety between friends?!

The issue I am discovering with blog topics that one hasn’t precisely chosen – this one of pregnancy, for instance – (there, I said it!) is that it does tend to elicit personal admissions that, in the everyday course of subject-selection, one could quietly weed out. It is a long, long-standing irritant to the Hairy Hubby that my self-portrayal here does not, naturally, conform in its entireity to the description that he would give of me, or of the events I write about. He does not think that I am wilfully distorting any truths per se, merely that he frequently disagrees with my editorial decisions (excuse the pomposity, do. This is not The Times, I know.) regarding those items I include, those I leave out, the due emphasis given to them, and the resulting hue of either flattery or disparagement with which I paint the subject matter. I grant, freely, that I am far more likely to show you a photo of a cake I am pleased with than dwell on all the many occasions when John’s parenting is a distinct improvement on mine, and I have long ago ceased to bother having the argument about why that is Just Fine On My Blog, given that I am not, in fact, the parity-obsessed BBC.

All that being said, I would have preferred not to parade my peestick compulsion before you all, but events eventuated and I Am Not Proud. Well, maybe a tiny bit proud. I only know my final peestick total to the nearest… score, which will be my excuse for inexplicable failure at Full Disclosure Of Facts Unflattering To Ann.

We are, potentially, about to enter a different phase of pregnancy that will force me to highlight another facet of my idiosyncratic don’t-try-this-at-home approach to stress-management. The first person to use the word obsessive… well, actually, you can’t be, because John got in ahead of you a few days ago when I asked him if he knew where I’d left it. It. IT. The Thing.

Behold The Doppler. If you thought my peesticking was excessive, you have, I assure you, seen nothin’ yet. I am too fat, at only 8 weeks, to have a hope of picking anything up as yet, but that has not stopped me trying, naturally. Zippety.

Because I have lost two previous pregnancies circa this gestation, and I am climbing the walls a little, I have arranged a private scan for tomorrow. I can juuust about manage a week of Schrodingeryness, and that is my limit of knowlessness, thank you. I have succeeded in infecting John with my nerves, to the point that he is, once again, dreading the worst every time my name pops up on his ringing phone, apparently. Nevertheless, the poor chap is concerned that this Private Scan business might rapidly develop into an addiction of comparative £££ to crack cocaine – to which I reply that he had better hope I find something with my trusty doppler… soon.

Assuming that there is still a Turbo in there to find.

Nervous, edgy,  ill-tempered and crampy. 

Situation normal.


12 Responses

  1. Ah, I see, it’s not YOUR doppler, just a picture of one…

    … I was just about to ask you exactly where you’d stuck it to get a heart rate reading of 140 at 8 weeks…

  2. I hope the scan is reassuring and that soon you are picking up a heartbeat all by yourself.

  3. Why is that obsessive?

  4. Do you know I nearly asked when the dopplering would start!!! It’s not obsessive!! At least not in my experience of pregnancy

    Hope scan reassuring and wonderful.

  5. Sending generally supportive and helpful comments that momentarily have left my brain in search of morning coffee.

  6. every night before bed was my routine. And I had the same one. Never managed to find anything before 11 weeks though.

    hang in there.

    • Ooh, just once a day? I wouldn’t have been able to restrict myself to that! However I never got my paws on a doppler. Tried to hire one and take delivery of it at work, but it never showed up, although company claimed to have delivered it somewhere in the site, but had no idea where or to who….

      By the time we’d established that I was in no way to blame for this debacle, I was in the hospital and their offer of another one seemed a little surplus to requirements what with having the nurses there doing it every other minute (when not taking my blood pressure and poking my ankles)

      Anyway, good luck with tracking Turbo!

  7. One day at a time.

  8. Just humming quietly to myself 😉

  9. Oh the gratuitous scans! Hope you get lots of pics printed out to save for Turbo’s photo album, and hope also there is never any reason to have those weekly scans become obligatory.

  10. I avoided a Doppler like I avoided pee sticks, and protein dip sticks and a bp monitor all of who a friend of mine obsessed about. I always figured that there was sod all I or anyone could do about anything going wrong until well after I could feel movement so I could live between scans. Probably couldn’t have done it though if I wasn’t in and out of the scan unit like a boomerang though I admit.

    Hoping to see an excellent update fromtodays scan soon.

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