I’m not that into food these days. My favorite thing to eat is still a tall glass of ice water, though lately I’ve been craving a cold beer. This morning Matt makes me his “green machine,” which is a smoothie with greek yogurt, spinach, banana, and OJ. Since I’ve just brushed my teeth, I leave it sitting on my desk as I shop for a new duvet cover online that will hide all the disgusting stains that our dogs leave on our bed. As I’m admiring an organic ikat number, a chat window pops up from the triplets. It reads:
Please drink that thing in front of you.
Pretend it’s a liquified duvet cover if you have to, whatever it takes.
Matt sure knows how to guilt a gal. I guzzle down the green machine / liquified duvet and we head off to the ultrasound. This week my OB wants to do some fetal heart monitoring, so the nurse straps three sensors to my belly with elastic bands. I’m given two joysticks and told to click the one on the right if Trip C moves, and the one on the left if Trips A or B move. Problem is, they’re all crammed in there together, so it’s hard to tell who’s doing what.
As I’m lying there, listening to galloping heartbeats, Matt begins to fall out of his swivel chair. His face contorts into panic as he teeters from side to side, trying to regain his balance. “Woah, woah woah!” he cries, shifting left, then backwards, then right. It is taking him forever to just fall out of the damn chair, and as I watch the disaster playing out before me I start laughing uncontrollably, bouncing my belly up and down. The needle that is recording heartbeats onto a sheet of paper begins to scribble furiously. Our OB and nurse burst into the room and fly over to the monitor. “I’m sorry,” I gasp. “That idiot over there won’t hurry up and fall.”
I don’t think they are as amused as I am. They turn the machine off and release us back into society. Fetal monitoring fail. But, we made it out of the week 20s and are in the week 30s. Gestation win!