Today I finally met with an OB. I loved her. Loved! I did not expect to. I really wanted to use a midwife, but was struggling to find one that could deliver at the hospital I wanted to deliver at. After much hemming and hawing, I finally decided to bite the bullet and schedule an appointment with an OB, thinking that I could always switch to a midwife if the OB didn’t feel right. But did I mention that I actually loved her? She gave us a lot of information, the spent time with us, she answered our questions, and she treated us like smart, competent people. She didn’t stumble over the fact of my wife.
Except (you had to know this was coming) she is leaving the practice in a month, because she is moving. So, I am back to square one, except that I know now that a friend of ours uses a doctor at this particular Ob/Gyn office as her gynecologist, and really likes her. So I have hope I will like the other doctors in the group and can stay put.
While we were waiting for the physical part of the appointment (aka the legs in stirrups part), I got hungry. This is not surprising, since I am often hungry. I ate pretzels. Apparently, the baby likes pretzels, because a few minutes later, when I was having the sonogram, the baby was dancing up a storm. Wiggling arms and legs so much that it was hard for the doctor to measure him or her. And then finally, when she did, she said I measured at 9 weeks, 2 days. Which is exactly what I am. Congrats, baby, for growing at the precisely average rate. So far, the baby is all head, but here’s a typically horrible ultrasound picture of our little dancer. Starting to look very baby-like, don’t you think? Except proportioned like a gummy bear.