But what is it with people and their sonogram photos? With the exception of those nifty 4d ones (which to be honest, I still don't need to see, thanks), for the most part it's like looking at a Rorschach test. Oh how adorable! A motorcycle! A hamburger? A prairie dog wrestling with a laundry basket? Oh it's a girl! I'm sorry, of course it is... and there's her darling little-- wait, is that a... a... is that a tentacle?
Spare me, alright? I promise I'll spare you. Well unless you're my mother, who's so desperate to get a glance at the little squatter that I'm surprised she hasn't simply tipped me over and shined a maglite up my choch' yet. I'm fully aware that precious few will be as interested in my grainy blob of a black and white fetus as me and the mister, so I will not be going for the 12 wallet sized photo option, and I will not yank the damn thing out of my purse every time someone so much as glances at my belly. Their confused, polite smile as I attempt to outline what may or may not be a pair of antennae is not needed to validate what I already know-- this kid's going to be hella good looking.
Anyway, the only thing I'm really concerned about is whether this kid's got all his bits in the right spots. I'm about as dipsy with my prenatal pills as I was with my birth control ones, and I'm hoping that a lack of supplemental folic acid hasn't somehow produced an extra limb or something equally disturbing. Clearly, I have no working knowledge of vitamins. Or fetal development. Either way, the only emotion I'm looking forward to tomorrow is relief when I can see for myself that the squatter isn't floating upside down at the top of my uterus like a carnival goldfish five minutes after you get it home. Also, I'll hopefully be finding out whether I've been accidentally creating a flaming homosexual or just a girl with dreadful taste in music by swapping out that Mozart for Embryos crap for The Best of 80's Pop One Hit Wonders. What?! I've got to listen to it too, you know.
With love and Wham!a.