I just can’t really help it.  I spent the last two days, eyes and ears open for something, ANYTHING, that would make for a vaguely interesting post that had nothing to do with the goings-on of my uterus, but I just CAN’T. I mean, I suppose I could tell you about my dreams, but when’s the last time you read about someone’s dream and actually finished reading the post?  Because honestly, hearing about someone else’s dreams is just about the most soporific activity on the planet, and sometimes you can get injured reading those posts, what with all the eye-rolling.  Besides, I NEVER remember my dreams.  EVER.

I suppose I could tell you about the amazing meatloaf I made last night, but I’m not a food blogger, and I didn’t take any pictures (just imagine me, my cheeks stuffed with meatloaf, sitting in front of the television.  Besides, pictures of ground meat aren’t exactly the most appetizing thing).  I could transcribe the recipe, but I am definitely too lazy for that (but not too lazy to link it.  Try it, even though the prunes kinda squick you out.  I promise).

I could tell you about how the cats are, but GOD.  You already know.  They are sheddy, whiny, and the old, decrepit one still refuses to use the litterbox.  If I tell you much more about them, you’ll start to get the wrong idea about the depth of my affection for the cats, and you might start to think I am just one missed day of medication away from being that lady on Hoarders, you know the one, with the 40 cats.

Although, LOOK AT THAT.  Three hundred words where I didn’t say a damn thing about my uterine tenant, which is about half the number of words in a typical post I write.  HALFWAY THERE.

Now that that is out of the way, I can blather on at length about the fetus, which was observed today via ultrasound.  There are arms and legs, which the ultrasound tech tells me are quite long.  J and I are both shorties, and in an attempt to stretch out the frame upon which my plump genes might hang themselves, we picked a 6’4 donor with two sisters who are 6’3.  It appears that part one of lesbian genetic manipulation has been successful (Hey, suddenly being gay doesn’t sound so bad!).

The fetus, for which we have no cute nickname, much to my chagrin (apparently, it’s National Delurking Day, so if that’s your jam, please feel free to suggest a gender-neutral whimsical nickname for the fetus, because “fetus” is just clunky), also has hands and feet.  The hands are for waving, and also for some sort of modern dance, or maybe that “Walk Like an Egyptian” dance, one arm overhead, and the other down by its side.  The feet are for kicking my bladder at an alarming speed, which explains why I am in the bathroom every motherfucking hour, and can no longer avoid public restrooms (again, if you have to, you could do worse that those in your local Target).

Why did no one tell me how absolutely gorgeous (and somewhat prehistoric) the ultrasound view of the fetal spine is?  I mean, seriously. Right there, in scratchy black and white, you too can marvel at the results of evolution, and the miracle of engineering that permits us to stand upright.  We also spotted tiny ribs jutting out from the spine, and from a different angle, a tiny, four-chambered heart beating in the correct location.  Good LORD, I have never been more impressed with how medical technology harnesses the power of science than in those 15 minutes this morning.

The fetus also has an appropriately sized head, a pointy chin, and a little tiny jelly bean of a nose.  We specifically told the technician we didn’t want to know the sex, and the one time the baby was positioned in such a way that it might have been possible for the untrained eye to guess, both hands were in the fig-leaf position, as if it was getting ready to form a wall against a penalty kick.  I suppose it’s possible the technician knows and didn’t tell us, but that’s fine. Either way, we managed to hold steady and not find out (though, goodness, it was tempting).

Head-on, the fetus still looks like Skeletor, and not like a little chubby thing you might be forgiven for simply taking a bite out of.  I guess that’s what the remaining 5 months are for.

I am not quite sure why I cannot bring myself to purchase a single item for our impending arrival, vacillating between “there’s plenty of time” and “it could still all go horribly awry” (look, I know I’m out of the danger zone, and I have no indication that anything is going to go wrong, but this is how I’m wired.  I am a worrier, a medicated worrier, and there is no amount of telling myself that the worry is both useless and time-consuming that will make it go away).  I feel like I’ve set an arbitrary 20 week goal line in my mind, and am hoping that, since that is only 2 weeks away, that the little fear will slip away.

WHEW.  Now that that is out of my system, I am free to talk and think about other things, like how it is currently 80 degrees in Long Beach, while almost everyone else I know is digging themselves out from under some version of WINTER STORM 2011.  Stay warm, y’all.