The heart, it beats

I hate myself, but I'm going to do it anyway. Beware, this post contains some talk of pregnancy. However, no bellies were gleefully rubbed in the writing of this post.

Today was my first proper antenatal appointment. It could have fallen on a better day, as The Dude is having some sort of lovely invasive procedure on his hip, likely as we speak. I have been agonising over him dying on the table as a result of a previously unknown allergy to whatever sedatives they are using, and he has been agonising over whether Enid's heart still beats. We make an ideal pair.

Though he does not yet know it, Enid does still have a beating heart. It's loud and strong, most unlike its mother's emotional state. The doctor warned me beforehand that at 11w2d it may be too early, but as soon as the doppler touched my abdomen, the heartbeat could be heard right away. This has solidified my plans to get me one of those bitches.

The only other issue discussed was that of my midwife. It seems she will call me in the next week or so and then...come to my friggin' house for a stop and chat! I had no idea they did such things. My first thought was that it sounds like an adoption homestudy, with the midwife sitting there quietly and evaluate how very non-child safe our flat is, as well as arriving at the conclusion that the child-to-be will have a friendly, sociable, normal dad and a mostly insane, eccentric mother.

So that's it really. It's hardly unique or thrilling news, I know. I'm just pleased Enid isn't dead. I need to save those words for the blog, because The Dude isn't too keen on using "dead" in connection with Enid. Go figure. Oh, and I am now the proud owner of a Maternity Exemption Card. This means I do not have to pay any money toward prescriptions for the duration of the pregnancy, and I believe well into a baby's first year. Carrying the card in my wallet feels quite bizarre, like I've stolen it from a pregnant woman so I can pretend I'm pregnant too. Maternity and me...they just don't quite connect.

I know I said there wouldn't be stomach rubbing in this post, but one of my recent discoveries is proving too much to resist. In trying to find out more information about the various stages of pregnancy, I have come across online galleries of pregnant women posting belly shots. I know, who cares, right? HOWEVER, have you ever looked at the really early pregnancy ones? They are photographic proof that many fertile women are living on another fucking planet to IFers. There are a mixture of different situations:

-Skinny women with absolutely no visible pouching stomach rubbing their bellies or cupping an imaginary protrusion

-Skinny women with a slight distended stomach, but only because she is slouching and not sucking it in at all

-Large women that are...well, large. That ain't no baby sweetie, it's fat.

They all unite on these galleries, beaming at their non-existent 6w baby bellies. No doubt these women have already convinced themselves that the maternity pants they just bought are needed right away. Ugh.

And now, so we can go from mocking people to hating them, I give you this search which lead to my blog: "Infertiles stop feeling sorry for themselves". Amazingly, I was at the bottom of page one for this search. I guess I only mildly feel sorry for myself.