My appointment yesterday was encouraging.
The midwives chatted with the doctors, who'd suggested biweekly ultrasounds to monitor my cervix starting at 16 weeks. My actual cervix is fine, but my bicornuate uterus suggests I'm at risk for preterm labor. I had nothing even close to preterm labor with Westley; I practically had to evict him. In my mind, the uterine proof is in the baby pudding. But the doctors still want to check. My insides will be under surveillance soon.
The midwife and I talked a long time about spotting and cervical checks and viability. Finally, she said, "We probably won't be able to to hear the heartbeat today. You can't usually pick it up until after 11 weeks. But if you'd like—"
As I arranged my jeans around my hips, I reminded myself that I was not allowed to be anxious if nothing came up on the doppler. It's officially too early. Just because you don't hear anything doesn't mean—
"There it is!"
I didn't hear it at first, but after a second, it was impossible to miss. Electronic galloping horses.
* * *
That evening, after filling Rob in on the details both thrilling (baby's heartbeat!) and not-so (cervix under surveillance), I discovered that my pants have started to quit.
Two holes, one on the inside of each front belt-loop, forming in response to my soon-to-be-considerable girth.
Rob laughed. "I like that they're symmetrical."
Except that the hole on the left side, where the embryo implanted, is bigger.
(Rob suggested we call the baby "Girthy.")