I love midwives. With whom else could I speak frankly and openly about conceiving babies, uterus tilting, fertility and whether or not I wear my seat belt 100% of the time (I do!) all while she's um... examining things? AND on the first date?
Who, I ask?
No one, unless they buy me dinner first.
So, we (and by "we" I mean "she") was looking around diligently for my littlest child without any luck.
"Good grief" she declared. "Where is your uterus?"
"Um... I am absolutely certain that the last time anyone checked, it was in there." I replied.
"Hmm," she continued. "It must be very tilted. Or you're not as far along as we thought."
"Oh no," I countered. "I know exactly when this baby came about..." I said sounding very certain.
Which is how I found myself looking at my youngest offspring on a big flat screen TV. The old-fashioned "feel it out" method wasn't cutting it. The midwife had NO clue how big the baby was or even a due date by simple glance, but at the very least, she found "cardiac activity" which was a relief. Because waiting for someone to swish something around on my tummy to FIND said cardiac activity causes me to have cardiac issues of my own.
NERVOUS I say.
But she found him (of course we don't really know if he's a him, but bear with me).
And so, I went and got a sandwich in celebration.
How ELSE would I have celebrated? I mean, really.
What a blessing. A real live baby, as the midwife called him.
And we shall dub him, "Squishy" and he shall be mine.
Love you Squishy!