Our baby is either really lazy or a ninja. The medical community proved this to me today during an unscheduled visit to the sonographer for something called a non-stress test. Incidentally, that’s a bit of a misnomer if it’s attempting to capture the experience of hearing, “You need to come in in an hour so we can monitor the baby’s heart and determine if you’re having contractions. If you’re having contractions, we’ll send you to labor and delivery.” A better name for this perhaps is the SWEET MERCIFUL CRAP WHAT IS GOING ON WITH MY BABY Test.
In brief: after the wee one spent last week tenderizing me from the inside with regular whacks, thwacks, and swats, I felt zilch for the entire weekend and all morning. I’m not an alarmist but common sense (and our trusty pregnancy book which makes up for what we lack in common sense) indicated this was a situation in which one would call a doctor, as opposed to say, relying on random chicks on internet forums writing “i think ull be fine. my baby did this to me and it was totely okay.”
When our last option failed to yield results–that would be my husband saying directly into the belly button this morning in his best stern voice, “Sabine, this is your father. Start moving around,”–I rang the doctor.
As soon as they strapped the monitors on, I heard her heart beating. For the next 30 minutes I lounged in a comfy recliner in a pleasantly dim room while listening to her. Everything checked out. She was fine. She was either relaxing with a chilled beverage and the new Vanity Fair (the lazy theory) or she’d maneuvered herself into some position that prevented me from feeling her movements (the ninja theory).
And tonight she’s foxtrotting around in there like she’s listening to Cole Porter’s lesser known tune, “I Get a Kick Out of You (Hitting Your Insurance Deductible).”