So, two days from now I will be having another ultrasound. Currently, for those of you who know NOTHING about me (and really how dare you? I jest in case sarcasm isn’t my strongest suit right now.) I am 32 weeks pregnant.
As I’ve talked of in other places, I do have Gestational Diabetes, which makes the end of every pregnancy a little tricky. Before anyone worries about this too much, I do everything they say to do to handle it and my first two children are healthy, beautiful boys.
I tell you this not to talk about my pregnancy—actually I’m finding with the third pregnancy that my desire to talk about it almost zilch—but as a means to explain to you why I have ultrasounds every two weeks.
I don’t think there could be anything more amazing, but let’s also face it, bizarre than watching my quickly growing third son on the Ultrasound machine. The first thing they do is find the heartbeat. I hold my breath until it shows, although I have every reason to believe the heartbeat is fine as I feel him jumping around inside of me like my internal organs are his playground.
Every week, somehow, my body knows exactly how to grow the baby, how much weight to put on him, which one of his organs should develop and which ones will come in the next few weeks until ultimately we reach the end of gestation where only the lungs wait for fulfillment.
If women didn’t do this every day, we would call it science fiction.
Last week, Her Wolf released from Liquid Silver Books. I didn’t have to have any ultrasounds to make sure it was healthy nor did I experience any labor pains. But I have to admit, I worry about it—all of the time. Do people like it? Is anyone reading it? Did I take good enough care of it when it was just mine to make?
Hopefully, both my works in progress will continue to grow as they have been and some day I can tell baby number 3 about how he helped me publish my first novel.
Best to all of you.