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I hope nobody died holding their breath out there, waiting for me to elaborate. I've been busy and processing and generally procrastinating.
So the way it happened. I was surprised at how nervous I was beforehand. The tech called us back and sent me to empty my bladder. I remember looking at myself in the mirror thinking, this is it. I'm leaving this bathroom and I'm going to find out what my future holds. I couldn't shake the feeling that my life was going to be substantially different when I walked out of that office. I was going to have a son or a daughter. My heart was pounding, I was having trouble catching my breath, and I felt utterly ridiculous. I guess I was also scared of finding out that something was wrong - I don't think I've gone to an appointment yet this pregnancy without being kind of convinced that I was going to find out the baby had died. So of course I was worried the ultrasound would show a missing leg or sixth and seventh finger or a tail or some such anatomical disaster.
Moving on. Once I was covered and goo and the scan started, I relaxed a little, but I was still anxious about the money shot. I had been thinking from the moment I suspected I was pregnant that it was a boy - and all the old wives tales seemed to back that up. But over the 24-48 hours before the ultrasound, the little voice inside my head started in on me. You know it's a girl, don't you. It's a girl and you're dead meat. Your poor sweet husband is going to suffer for all of YOUR sins. Which is why, when the tech said, "see these three lines? That's the labia," I completely froze. Oh CRAP. Since Husband and I were both sitting there like a couple of mutes, she added quite helpfully, "so it's a girl." I was so stunned. I was stunned, grateful, and self conscious that I wasn't reacting correctly all at the same time. And if you know me at all you know I don't often have an immediate emotional reaction to anything. There is always a bit of a processing delay. But this was a big moment, and all I could give the tech was a fairly unenthusiastic sounding "oh wow...it is a girl."
Don't get me wrong. I am - we are - thrilled to death to be having a little girl. It's just a bit of a shock. But as much as I thought it was a boy and wanted a boy, there was always a part of me that longed for a baby girl, with all the sweet names, pretty nursery colors, cute outfits and what have you.
Plus I always thought Pork Chop was a cooler nickname for a girl than a boy.
Wow, we really didn't see this one coming. Pork Chop is a girl!
I'll post the whole story tomorrow. Right now suffice to say I've already given the baby girl department at Nordstrom a good once over.
For those of you concerned with my nutrition (ahem, Mavis), I present you with this evidence: I ate an orange.
There, aren't you proud of me? In the interest of full disclosure, I have to admit that the little satsuma was part of a larger plot. In my most interesting craving story to date, I was suddenly, urgently overcome with the urge to eat oranges and popcorn. I never eat oranges. I would estimate that I have eaten approximately four oranges over the course of my lifetime. And that includes the 1.5 oranges I have eaten since I marched my happy ass to the grocery store last night to buy me a five pound box of satsumas. As for the popcorn, also not an everyday choice for me. But last night, I had to have both. Together. I really must recommend the combo, if you've never tried it.
In other healthy eating news, check out what I made tonight for dinner. You see, just because I post all my pictures of my delicious binges doesn't mean that's all I eat. I promise.
Mmmm, look...tasty turkey meatballs in marinara sauce. What a wonderful source of lean protein and lycopene.
But wait! What's this? Now I've added some whole wheat linguine! Hooray for complex carbohydrates!
And lastly, the piece de resistance -
cheese on top! Really, what's not better with cheese on top. And I will have you know that all my pregnancy books tell me what a wonderful source of protein cheese is during pregnancy - so suck it, haters.
What better way to celebrate the birth of the baby Jesus than with a feast of Dick's burgers? I sure can't think of anything.
All irreverence and blasphemy aside, Merry Christmas. I hope Santa brings everything you asked for. And now, as a special gift from me to you, I give you Pork Chop's big debut (aka my belly at 18 weeks):
Only four more days 'til The Big Ultrasound!!!
I just saw Paula Deen make a quiche with hashbrowns for crust and a coffee cake sweetened with a packet of butterscotch puddin'. I missed the method for the quiche, but I'm pretty sure there was at least a stick of butter involved. Pretty sure because of the crispy GB&D-ness of that crust, and also because it is Paula Deen we're talking about, after all. I didn't so much watch the rest of the episode of Home Cookin' (or whatever her show is called) as I did zone out on the TV, fantasizing that Paula Deen was actually my mother and that she had insisted I come back home to Savannah and take to my floral chintz-and-toile-replete bed, so that she might feed me properly for the duration of my pregnancy. Just so long as she kept those idiot boys of her away from me, it could be the perfect set up.
We are now in the final countdown to the Big Reveal - the anatomy ultrasound which should tell us what we're having.
(for the record, I'm hoping human child with all appendages accounted for and in place, and not alien or kitten, as I have recently dreamt)
(additionally, for the record, I am hoping that my use of the phrase 'final countdown' now has the song stuck in your head, and, in a perfect world, images of Gob Bluth's magic show)
The appointment is set for 10:15 on the 28th, and is meant to be a fabulous late Christmas present for Husband and myself. I will have you know that I could have scheduled the appointment for this week, but I showed (completely out of character) patience and restraint to make it a special little occasion all its own.
So now for the big question: Boy or Girl? Vote in my poll and see if you gain bragging rights. And since there are only roughly two or three of you reading this, feel free to vote over and over again to make it look like I'm really popular and everyone cares. Thanks.
I didn't really set out to keep a public food diary. I guess you can tell a lot about what else interesting I've got going on, seeing as all I want to write about is what I've been eating. Maybe once we find out the sex of the baby, or I start buying stuff, or I start to feel it move more regularly - maybe then food will take a backseat. 
That being said, check out that bagel sandwich. It doesn't look like much - the iPhone picture doesn't do it justice. But that bagel sandwich is worth putting a cooler in the backseat of your car and driving to Bellingham. Which is what I did. WAIT. Before you think I'm too crazy, we had another, way better reason to drive to Bellingham yesterday. But you can never go to Bellingham without stopping at the Bagelry, a lesson learned from one of my Besties - a Bestie who got a sandwich of her own put in that cooler.
And there you have Eggs Benedict at The Cheesecake Factory. Normally I avoid that place like the plague, which should give you some indication of the quality of people we were meeting there. It actually turned out to be quite good Bennies, worth the undercooked egg warning in every bite. Do you realize that my avoidance of The Cheesecake Factory is so pathological as to result in my husband having never eaten there before? I mean, granted, I've only known him for seven years, so it can't be all my fault. But something to think about. I wonder what sort of things my children will fail to experience growing up because of my neuroses. *SPECIAL NOTE TO QUALITY PEOPLE (AND FAITHFUL READERS) WE MET AT CHEESECAKE: I actually have no real problem with Cheesecake Factory. I actually like the food. I just generally avoid it because of the twenty page menu and giant portions -- and the fact that they will give you cheesecake to go. I mean, that's not a problem now, but normally? That's a temptation I try to avoid.
