I go in for an early ultrasound today to determine where exactly I am in this pregnancy. I'm pretty sure I'm somewhere around the 8 week mark but this will give me a much better answer for all those people asking when I'm due.
I admit, I hate ultrasounds. You have to drink a lot of water, not pee the water out, take a long drive, sit in a waiting room, expose your belly to the gel...It's a lot of work for a grainy picture that everybody else seems to think is amazing but leaves me wondering which bit is the head. At least with the ultrasound happening this early I won't feel like an idiot for not recognizing my child's nose considering the baby is now about the size of a blueberry.
No, I'm not much of a romantic when it comes to a fetus. There's never any doubt for me, in my circumstances, that any pregnancy will be carried to term but that's never meant I've gotten gushy about the little peanuts. I suppose that until the baby is kicking the bejesus out of my internal organs it isn't much more then a promise. A lovely, wonderful promise but still, just a promise. You'll see no cute little pregnancy tickers or, "my baby is THIS big!" pictures here. This may be horribly unmaternal of me but pregnancy in it's early stages seems to be only a step or two above hosting a benign parasite.
None of that means I'm not excited about the baby. I'm already cruising the local thrift stores for old flannel sheets and receiving blankets I can turn into cloth diapers. It's just that the connection between the queasy first trimester and the little bundle of joy at the end has always been a little shaky for me.