Today, Hubby and I are going to the Perinatal Center to take a peek at our little girly girl. It won't be a great opportunity for a sonogram picture because the poor friend is all kinds of squished at this stage of the game. That's not really the point of this visit, anyway. According to the doctor's prescription, the good folks who know how to work the sonogram machines are going to check and see if the baby's size matches up with my due date. If she's measuring larger than normal for 36 weeks, then they may move my due date up a bit. I've been consistently "measuring large" at my biweekly OB/GYN visits, so I'm not going to be all that shocked if they tell me I should really make sure that hospital bag is packed (don't worry, it is).
By the way, I've always measured large (ha ha) for my height. Still not something a girl needs to hear...
Regardless of which sonograms and bloodwork and other joyful medical tasks I need to accomplish (I'm not even going to TALK about Pregnancy.com's recommendation that I begin a regimen of perienum massage), I know I'm getting close to confinement in ye olde childbed. Why? 'Cause I had a dream that I had twins last night. Yikes. It's not at all possible since the other sonograms have show that there has been just one lonely baby inhabiting me lo these eight months. Still, though. A girl doesn't like surprises like that, even in the dreamscape.
I'll let you know if the last radiologist was just foolin' us last time when she confimed the one babe...
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