frogs and snails and puppy dog tails

We had the Level II ultrasound today at Prentice. First observation: Prentice is like the Ritz Carlton's of hospitals. I cannot wait to spend a few days there. I'm a little surprised that the women being rolled out with armloads of flowers and balloons were not wiping away tears at the thought of returning to their significantly less-swanky homes.

I was ridiculously excited and eager all day, so I left work with loads of time to spare. Walked to the hospital, stopping to eat along the way. At my dear friend Beth's suggestion, I had a diet coke with lunch, my first caffeine in months. Beth explained that the caffeine would get the baby moving, and make the sex reveal a surer thing. I really, really wanted to know the sex. So I downed the soda. Anything to avoid a prude and proper fetus.

I made it to the hospital a few minutes early. The ultrasound tech called me back before Brad arrived, and we needed to get things started, so she promised not to reveal the sex before he showed up. When she first scanned the belly to get her bearings, she said, "Okay. I promise not to reveal anything." Which made me think that she may have seen something, and if that was the case, odds were on Tater being a fella. I got to see the brain and Tater's mouth opening and closing before Brad showed up. Then he arrived, and we looked at the heart, and the spine, and arms bones, and leg bones, and mid-section circumference, and holy cow are we ever going to see the area everyone's been waiting for? The tech did mention that she had a hard time getting a couple of the measurements because Tater was moving around so much. Um, oops? Little too much Diet Coke? Where's the line between zonked out fetus who reveals nothing and disco-dancing fetus who dares you to keep up? Tater also had the hiccups during the ultrasound, which was very cute. Surely that had nothing to do with my drugging efforts? Surely.

Here's a cute shot of Tater's profile. Brad thinks Tater looks the most like Aunt Caty. He says it is definitely a Price nose. I can see that.



Even if the moving and the shaking and the hiccuping was my fault, it was WORTH IT. Because all of the sudden, there's a freeze frame. And the tech says, "Do you want to take a guess?" Brad catches on first, and I do a double-take.

It's official! Tater is all boy. And not shy about making it known. Exhibit A:



Yes folks, there's a tiny penis in my belly. And by the looks of it, perhaps I should not be referring to it as tiny.

Our first thought was how Randy was going to be thrilled beyond belief. He was. (We quickly sent an email message to family, and Randy immediately responded with this as a close approximation of his reaction.) Our second thought was that we had not done any lasting harm by referring to Tater as a boy all of these months. High five. Brad's third thought was that he is going to have to learn the rules for the major sports. I reminded him that Randy and DadRo would take care of that. Plus, I know most of them. (Except for hockey, which I enjoy watching, but it's like seeing a beautiful foreign film without subtitles. I really really want to get it. But I don't.) So then Brad focused on acquiring matching father and son drum sets. Egad.

Later, Brad noted that he was excited to finally have some male companionship at home. The house is indeed estrogen-friendly, because I am a girl and the dog is a girl and the cat is a girl. Fair enough. Maggie (dog) and Brewster (cat) will definitely be thrilled, as they have strong preferences for men. Added bonus: Maggie loves anything that is inclined to throw a ball.

Oh! And the good news. No soft markers of Down Syndrome. The doctor who came in to review the findings explained that this doesn't necessarily mean that Tater doesn't have Down Syndrome, but it's a good sign. We'll take it.

The other big reveal at the appointment was that Tater is a giant. After the tech took all the measurements and went away to do her magic, she returned and asked us how sure we were about our due date. "Um, pretty sure?" If Tater is, in fact, 19 weeks and 2 days along, he is at the head of the class. All the measurements they took were in the 90th percentile, size-wise. Which means Tater would be average for a 20 1/2 week old baby. It's probably the Reese's.

If the date is right (which is probably the case, as we had an early ultrasound), it means we may have a big boy on our hands. The doctor asked if we were large babies. My dad told me that I was "huge," over 9 pounds. Randy was a giant, over 10 pounds. And though Brad was 7+ pounds, DadRo was a 9-pound baby. According to the doctor, big babies are genetic. Ouch. Perhaps my time at Prentice will be less euphoric that I'd hoped. Did I mention the free wifi and Bose sound systems? Ahhhh.