I heard the Tadpole’s heartbeat today.
The second monthly prenatal exam was short: urine sample, weight check (I lost two pounds since last month — blame it on nausea), blood pressure check, height of uterus check, and fetal heartbeat check.
Sometimes, this whole pregnancy thing doesn’t seem real; I guess being in the first trimester will do that. I don’t look obviously pregnant — just thick in the waist. Body changes are happening, but they’re subtle: Aches and tenderness here and there. Boobs prepping to be functional instead of just being there. That thickening waist. And the symptoms — since I haven’t been violently puking — have been subtle as well: Having the munchies all the time,which, if not satisfied, brings on nausea. Occasional shortness of breath, mostly in the evenings. The afternoon tiredness, post-work, that makes me nap for 2-3 hours at a stretch, if I succumb to it. Moodiness.
Very subtle. And, as a result, I still feel like I’m either not pregnant at all — because I can’t *feel* a baby in me — or that this pregnancy may not last, because if a miscarriage were to happen, it would commonly be in the first trimester or early in the second.
But then I heard the strong, fast heartbeat — boom, boom, boom, boom, boom — coming from my lower abdomen, between my belly button and my pubic bone. Alive. It’s the sound of something alive in me, something that isn’t me, but is part of me. It’s at 11 weeks, and the ob-gyn’s adjusted the due date to October 3. It’s alive, and in a few weeks, I *will* feel how alive this little one is.
Every visit to the doctor is a shot in the arm of euphoric hope. Biologically, I am 35 years old, and that number often makes me fear, makes me not want to hope too much.
172 beats per minute.
The little one makes me hope.