Baby of Mystery is 24.5 weeks in the making. Having been baked at 350 for mulitple months now, I feel I can gauge the kind of ninja this VERY.LAST.BABY. might be...
B.O.M. doesn't need much sleep. Instead, the tiny ninja's hours are widdled away with kickboxing practice, bladder trampolining and general arcobatic warm-up. Sometimes, this is too much excitement and hiccups can follow training sessions. And while I would hope that it's a means to slow down one active fetus, it only serves as a minor disruption to what would otherwise be filled with an engaged game of Poke the Mystery Organ.
Spleen! It's been awhile!
Friday, B.O.M. and I get to go for an unscheduled ultrasound with the fetal specialist. Because, if you're a child from the loins of Gann, it is prerequisted that alarms blare and heartrates elevate for fear that something might be afoot. In B.O.M's case, all sirens point to a skipping heartbeat. Drat. I was hoping to make this one problem-free. And quiet.
FAIL.
In any case, I'm not overly panicky. The Alarmist Mother is hiding in a dark pantry somewhere hoping to relish the last of the annual Christmas Godiva in peace while Regular Mom is busy bribing the Old Babies- for the zillionth time to please, please, please, for the love of carmel truffles, stop arguing and get that out of your sister's nose.
Keep you posted...
