Life's a Gas, Literally

During this pregnancy, I have had more (excuse me) ... urrrrp ... gas than I thought any human being could produce. Homer Simpson, with his lips vibrating, wavelike, while he belches, would be a good comparison to how I look most evenings after 5 p.m.

We've been joking that the baby wants to learn to burp the alphabet. Precocious boy that he is, he's having mommy learn now, so that she can teach him later. Tom is learning his alphabet the old-fashioned way, but not this baby. Nuh uh.

It seems that I will be out testosteroned in the Wishful Thinking household, with a male dog, two sons and a husband.

Our technician yesterday was absolutely wonderful, and took her time poking around to get excellent shots of all the important things - the cerebellum, the arms, hands and fingers, the eyes and mouth, the four-chamber heart. Baby's spine and femur were measured, and she even took a peek to make sure his kidneys were where they were supposed to be.

It took a couple of passes between the legs before anything was visible. For quite some time we didn't see any boy parts, and we all wondered if this would finally be the first granddaughter. But then, with the wizardry that is ultrasound, we saw the unmistakable sign that we would be having another son.

Our littlest man did not like the ultrasound wand, and kicked like crazy whenever the tech tried to focus in on him. I thought this was great, since my anterior placenta has kept me from feeling much movement to this point.

He is healthy, and sound, and likes to suck on his fingers. I can't wait to meet him, and at least I won't have to worry about Bratz dolls.