Oh My God It's Moving Toward Us!

Twenty-eight weeks in, almost twenty-nine. We're in the viable delivery (although still terribly complicated) zone.

This past Wednesday I had my weekly appointment with the specialist. He started seeing me weekly in September, when he determined that (TMI alert) I had low amniotic fluid and the Sprout was "small".

Umm.

Define "small", please.

He really couldn't...but eventually, through a visit with my regular OB's office, I got some numbers, something for me to latch onto. I like information...lots and lots of information...to help me figure out what's not right and how to deal with it. The specialist is used to working with women who have some pretty severe problems (either with their own health or with foetal development), women who face terrible choices and information overload and may be overwhelmed by it all. He tends to play things a little close to the vest to keep us from worrying ourselves sick...but in my case, I worry when I don't know. We've gotten better at communicating with each other these last few weeks.

So...small.

She started out measuring (give or take - there's a margin of error even with these marvelous modern machines) in the sixth percentile. That means that out of one-hundred babies, she would be the sixth smallest. Small.

M'kay.

Small enough that he began bandying about ideas like "It's better to deliver at twenty-five weeks and maybe have a live baby than to have a baby that stops growing and have a still birth." Oh. Uh...yeah...

The low fluid was worrying, too.

I don't know what the unit of measurement is - ounces, litres, cups, drops, squirrels - but I know the number he gave to my fluid level. Seven.

So he decided to see me every week, and measure the baby every two weeks (it's pointless to measure every week because the margin of growth would be somewhat negated by the margin of error)(at least, that's what I think he was saying- I'm not entirely convinced he wasn't speaking in tongues).

Next time she was eleventh percentile, fluid level unchanged.

Then twenty-third percentile, fluid still at seven whatsies.

This week, there was more fluid. Apparently a lot more. In a happy way. He decided not to measure her but to wait an extra week because she's looking...erm...average.

I'll take it. For once, I'll take average as being exceptional. He'll measure her again next week...and I'm hoping to hear something close to fiftieth percentile and normal fluid levels. Despite their predictions, I would really like to carry to term. I don't want a holiday baby, or one too close to Bird's birthday, and I'd really like to NOT have another Capricorn in the house (which means after January 20, thankyouverymuch). Yeah, yeah...

Meanwhile...back at the closet...

My clothing is usually loose and comfortable, but not right now. I'm wearing some hand-me-down maternity pants (thanks K) and my big-girl jeans, and some days I still feel like an over-stuffed sausage. I'm tellin' ya, I'm reaching house-like proportions, here.

I feel huge. Ungainly. I feel sorry for the stairs when I go up and down - I don't blame them for creaking. I feel like handlers with long ropes should be maneuvering me past parade crowds in New York City.

Small, my Aunt Fanny! I'm having Gigantor the Mega Baby, I just know it...