Mr (or Ms) Fitz of science

Some things you just can't do systematically.

Checklists, processes of elimination, or just trying things one by one don't always pay off.

After all the suggestions, all the funny, all the cute, and all the gender neutral names we went through for the womb raider, we still had nothing that clicked.

Yesterday a friend emailed me about the ultrasound and asked did we get to see 'Little Fitz'?.

And there you have it. Little Fitz it is.

For now.

It's cute enough for her liking, weird enough for mine, and accurately descriptive of what the bugger is.

Not to mention stupefyingly obvious. I'm really not the quickest. [Taps self on temple with chewed pencil].

In other news, ET has managed to not puke on any busses, colleagues, or husbands in the last few days, which is a plus. On the down side, we may have to install a television in the bathroom due to her frequent visits.

The fact I want to use the term 'Must See PV' is a sign I'm lacking sleep, and therefore I'm going to suggest she sleeps in the bath. Eliminating the need to get up and disturb me four times a night.

On the other hand, I may allow her to stay in the bed, as she is engaging in human horticulture after all, and I fancy living to see the little fella again next Wednesday at the next ultrasound.

The same day that it will turn a full nine weeks old.

Misery and milestones

Clichés are dull. No one wants to see 'predictable' or 'routine' really, do they?

Unless you're talking pregnancy.

Up to the start of this week, ET was flying along on the side-effect scale. A few bouts of tiredness and a bit more cleavage were the most she had to deal with.

Then along comes this week.

The woman is pissing like a racehorse. Not in the middle of a field, or with a nosebag tied around her head, or anything like that, but frequently.

Four times a night frequently.

I'm wholeheartedly in favour of this outward indication of her blossoming condition, I'd just prefer less nocturnal manifestations. I really can't afford to be losing beauty sleep.

That aside, I hit the jackpot yesterday. The lotto of pregnancy symptoms.

I received a phone call from my walking talking incubator to inform me she was on the verge of puking her guts up.

Bingo!

It seems empty stomachs, mutating foetuses, and 45 minute bus rides in the morning do not mix very well. The result is one very pale, clammy and nauseous wife, and one sadistically happy husband.

I just wonder how much longer she'll allow me to be outwardly delighted when she says she's on the verge of vomiting up a kidney.

That centimetre long urine generating, puke prompting, exhaustion creating creature growing happily inside her, is a whole (recalculated) 8 weeks old tomorrow.

Some cake petal?

Sacred excrement

It always kind of bothered me.

No matter how much explaining people did, wherever they pointed to, regardless of what they said to make it clearer, I have never been able to make head nor rump of ultrasound pictures.

I usually end up nodding and agreeing out of politeness, I was certain this would be no different.

ET pattered over to the examination chair, daintily pulling downwards on the hem of her top in an amusing attempt to preserve modesty in front of the male nurse, before spreading her legs in his face for the third or fourth time.

Off up went the dildo-cam into what is familiar TV territory for us.

Wow.

There. See that? Fuck. Right there.

Before he could point out anything, before he had a chance to say a word, there it was.

Like a torch being switched on and off in super fast forward mode. Bright, fast, and very very alive.

He didn't need to tell us it was a heartbeat, but he'd have had a tough job finding mine right there and then.

The shape was clear, to me at least, with head to rump measuring just over a centimetre.

Seriously, a bloody centimetre.

The poor bugger was carrying around a yolk sac as big as itself while still measuring a day ahead of the recalculated 7 weeks and 2 day old pregnancy.

Given the parents the wee fella has, this may well be the first and last time it will ever measure ahead on any size chart in its life.

Having a picture to look at is nothing short of amazing. There he/she is. Really there.

Freaky internet people, say hello.