The Dancing Baby

I had no idea I was pregnant for quite a long time. You see, the birth control pill I was on made it so I only sporadically got my period. Or I just got the merest suggestion of a period, the kind that you could totally miss if you were wearing red panties, you see. So how was I to know?

After suffering from some sort of stomach virus for about 10 days at work, it suddenly dawned on me that I should probably go to the doctor. I called the doctor and when I described my symptoms, they asked me when my last period was.

"Huh?" I said. And then stared into space as I tried to recall the last time I'd had to use Spray 'n' Wash on my underwear. I couldn't remember. I finally offered a feeble, "June? July, maybe?" to the receptionist and she replied, "It's September."

Whoops.

So I bought one of those uber-conclusive, idiot-proof pregnancy tests they have now. The kind that says, "PREGNANT, YOU DUMBASS" or "WHOO HOO! GET OUT OF JAIL FREE AND GET READY TO PARTAYYYY!!!!!111111!!!YOU! YOU! YOU!" The reason I was so selective about my pregnancy test was because when I'd tested myself six years previous to this, I had gotten two negative signs right away and breathed a huge sigh of relief.

"Phew! I'm doubly not pregnant!" I said.

(Did I mention I failed Algebra II in high school? Shut up. I totally passed it with a 59.9% the second time I took it. So I am not a failure.)

But after having read through the directions again, which vaguely jostled an ancient math memory ("Two negatives equals a positive") I proceeded to take all three tests in the box. All of which came out "doubly not pregnant" which actually means "really really once pregnant."

And you know what they say, "Once pregnant, twice shy." Or is that, "Once pregnant, twice pregnant, you dumbass?"

Anyway, that's the story of my persistent fertility on the birth control pill. Yes, I've gotten pregnant with both of my children while on the birth control pill. While normal everyday Americans look shocked, askance, horrified at this news ... the doctors and nurses at the Ob-Gyn office give you a blank stare when you screech at them in the office while wearing your napkin robe with your toenails peeling polish from the pedicure you had three weeks ago and yes, you should have gotten a pedicure before you had to get in the stirrups but the chronic nausea from your imaginary stomach virus which actually turned out to be a baby virus kept you from it, yes in this state of disrepair you screech: "HOW COULD THIS HAPPEN? HOW COULD THIS HAPPEN TWICE?!? I THOUGHT THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE 96 to 99% EFFECTIVE OR SOME SHIT LIKE THAT?!?"

But the professionals just shrug their shoulders and say, "It happens," or "I guess you're the 1 to 4%" and then they give you a reassuring smile, rub your knee and give you a bag full of baby formula samples and diapers, and you think to yourself, "Hey, I didn't even say whether I'd decided whether I'm having this baby or not!" But the doctors and nurses in Ob-Gyn offices are all-knowing because they know if you weren't having this baby you wouldn't be at your regular Ob-Gyn but you'd be skulking off to Planned Parenthood.

And besides, you're sitting there in the office rubbing your belly absentmindedly. I don't think one comforts one's unborn child if one is not planning on keeping it for a while.

So I made an appointment for a few weeks later to have an ultrasound. The doctor wanted to wait a few weeks to "make sure something is there" since none of us knew how far along I was. My last period was anytime between the calendar dates of "June" and "July" and I guess this wasn't specific enough for them.

A few weeks later the Boyfriend and I went back to the doctor's to figure out how long this little baby had been hijacking my uterus. I figured I was around 8 weeks pregnant at that point, which is pregnant enough to see the little seahorse that is your burgeoning baby.

The technician waved the wand around the cloudy universe that was my womb while the Boyfriend and I waited with bated breath. The next thing we knew, a living breathing, arm-waving, leg-kicking full-blown baby was dancing on the large-screen TV.

The Boyfriend, the technician and I collectively gasped.

"Oh my!" she said.

"Holy crap!" he said.

"What the hell!" I said.

The baby ignored all three of us and spun around in a womby piroutte and waved its arms over its head, bent and kicked its legs, and then waved its little fingers in front of its mouth. It spun and twisted in an absolutely blissful dance of life, ignoring the shocked adults witnessing its unbelievable State of Selfness.

"You are much further along than we thought!" the technician said, taking measurements. "You're 12 weeks!"

"12 weeks!' I said.

"12 weeks!" the Boyfriend said.

And then at some point we began to laugh. 

How could we not? We were expecting to see some anonymous little conglomerate of cells. We expected to see some reptilian snail of an embryo. We didn't expect to meet you with the perfect profile, the sweet round head, the delicate ears, the nimble fingers and toes.

We didn't expect you to be dancing.

My god. You were beautiful. How could we not love you? How could we not wait to dance with you? So your dad named you the Dancing Baby. And now, six weeks later, I can finally feel you dancing in there. You're still rocking and rolling. You've got a lot of shit to do, I can tell. You're a mover and a shaker. And you haven't got time for worried nancies like your dad and me. 

You want us to get up and dance too.