That was it for the midwife for another month, so then I went to see the OB. It’s feeling redundant, actually, they use the same tools and ask similar questions at this point. But the OB gets a gold star for finding the baby’s heartbeat this time. It feels like they’re tapping into my inner Darth Vader with the probe on my belly: whooosh whooosh thud… thud… whooosh thud (that’s your heartbeat, they clarify needlessly) and then this sudden whup!whup!whup!whup!whup!whup!whup!whup!whup!whup! – there it is! She guesses it’s about 160 – 170 beats a minute, she’s that good. I’m impressed. And though it’s a small thing and I’m not overly sentimental, I find myself thinking of how sturdy it sounded.

Next I get to decide if I’m doing the blood screening to find out if it’s defective. It doesn’t sound defective to me. But maybe more information is a good thing. I don’t know. If I do it, it won’t be because there’s anything wrong with this kid.

Around the edges I’m reading a ton, as usual. The Philosophical Baby, The Mayo Clinic Guide to Pregnancy, Active Birth, anything by Ina May Gaskin, and Journey Into Motherhood are my tops lately.

And then there’s this. An astonishing find, it was my grandmother’s in 1947 and earnestly promises to help by answering the questions we women have that doctors just don’t have time to answer because so very many babies are being born right this instant. The nutritional advice is actually quite sound and familiar, and while the actions of hormones are considered mysterious (hormones aren’t mentioned once, so I’m guessing they weren’t discovered yet), they have a pretty good sense of how gestation goes. So that hasn’t changed. Here’s a novel bit: it also suggests I should cut down smoking to one pack a day, but that if quitting entirely would make me a shrew, then that’s not recommended. Oh here, I won’t paraphrase… “If you have been used to smoking considerably more than [moderately - say 10 cigarettes a day], by no means try to give them up in pregnancy. There is no surer way of upsetting the nerves at a period when you should be calm and happy, or of converting a placid, sweet-tempered girl into an intolerable shrew.“

Just goes to show you, take all advice with a grain of salt… or a cigarette, by golly, if it keeps you sweet.

I’m still at the parental home for the holidays, where the Impending Grandparentalism is seeping into my parents in pretty good ways. They’ve known as long as any of you, of course, but it’s different when I’m really here.

I tried to find a book for grandparents before I came, a version of celebration for under the tree, but everything I came across on my brief search seemed dumb. Anyway, Mom beat me to it. Who would have thought that a 2-ton compendium of Calvin and Hobbes cartoons would be the ideal prep for a Pending Grandpa? He’s rolling around laughing every evening, mimicking Calvin in the grocery store, Calvin freaking out at his dad’s disembodied hand, and insinuating that this is going to be fun and hilarious… and a handful. Hey, whatever it takes.

Meanwhile, I’m getting bona fide morning sickness. Dizzy weary sudden onsets of Extreme Hunger followed by Extreme Thirst, or vice versa, and seasick first thing in the morning. Apparently this is a good sign while my body is growing an extra internal organ to support the little alien. I asked my grandma how she did this eight times. She hasn’t the foggiest idea.