• I am mid-tea swallow here. Thanks, Eric
• Need hair cut, stat
• Anne of Green Gables rag doll (which Lucy carried all the way downtown for the 100 Years of Anne festival last Saturday) is most definitely grabbing one of the Girls. Bad, Annie!
• So glad to look officialy pregnant, and not lumpy or like I’ve eaten too many bowls of Corn Pops (not that that’s happened *cough*)
• Still 19 weeks to go. Help.

Last Wednesday I just got home from seeing Carl when the phone rang.

It was my doctor’s office. They were insistent to see me the next day. About my ultrasound, the receptionist said. But it wasn’t anything to worry about, the receptionist said. But yes, I had to come in, even though I was officially transferring to the doctor/obstetrician who will deliver this baby and had an appointment with her the very next day, the receptionist said.

That phone call broke me. I lost it. The stress of work, Eric’s continuing job search, other drama, pregnancy — all of it converged with that phone call. Eric was at his brother’s in Toronto, but came flying home (as fast as one can up the Don Valley Parking Lot Parkway during rush hour) when I called him practically incoherent and sobbing.

(I called my boss and negotiated a break for a few days. Mom’s night out that evening helped immensely. A four-day hiatus from the computer and various fun-ness with Eric and Lucy meant this morning I woke nearly normal and less stressed. Thankfully.)

The short version of Thursday’s appointment was this: My prenatal testing showed a higher-than-normal ratio for my age for Down syndrome; mine was for a woman 34, not 29. Although the overall results pointed conclusively to negative, my cautious doctor didn’t like the number — so this afternoon, we went to the Oshawa hospital for a Level 2 ultrasound to get confirmation that everything is, indeed, all good.

And it is.

And I was completely proven wrong and utterly shocked to learn that Lucy is going to have a little sister.

…she’s pushing inanimate objects in the swing.

Further proof the nickname for my in-utero babies is appropriate:

“Scientists have known for a while that parasites can induce “behavioral modification” in its hosts - but this one is new: a parasite that turns its host into a bodyguard!

Inside the caterpillar host, a cruel drama takes place: the eggs of the parasitoid hatch and the larvae feed on the body fluids of the host. The caterpillar continues feeding, moving and growing like its unparasitized brothers and sisters. When the parasitoid larvae are full-grown, they emerge together through the host’s skin, and start pupating nearby. Unlike many other combinations of host and parasitoid, the host remains alive but displays spectacular changes in its behaviour: it stops feeding and remains close to the parasitoid pupae. Moreover, it defends the parasitoid pupae against approaching predators with violent head-swings.”

I got to go pee TWICE during my ultrasound in order to help the Parasite2 shift around in various needed positions to measure the heart and ribs and head and bones. Considering how small my bladder is and the fact I was so full it made me want to barf, this was the biggest relief ever.

Neither time helped with proper bit identification, though: The little bastard jerk Parasite2 was either spine up, crossed-legged, or sitting breech with her/his bottom firmly planted on my cervix, hiding the goods.

I know it’s ridiculous because the baby appears healthy and I’m healthy and we’re all healthy and there are compelling reasons to be all surprised in the waiting room, but I’m so disappointed. I feel silly even saying it when there are many other things in the world to be upset about, but I am.

Like I said with Lucy almost three years ago, there are so many uncontrollable things about pregnancy — what and how your body grows, the symptoms, when you go into labour, when and how the baby will be born. For me, there is something comforting about knowing this one thing about the new addition to our family.

But, I’ve got another 20 weeks to get used to the surprise and come up with a boy’s name to go along with the girl’s one we’ve had for a long time. The nursery was going to be green anyways, and I’m sure we have some neutral-coloured outfit kicking around to bring the Parasite2 home in.

And hey: Now the delivery will be just like the movies, when the doctor yells, “It’s a X!” and Eric will get to rush out and tell everyone.

(I still think it’s a boy. And I’m waving to you, too, you bit-hiding pipsqueak, but only with ONE FINGER.)

Outside: Three hot young worker men, glistening in the rain.

Inside: One bulging pregnant woman with a ridiculously full bladder, with teeny baby stomping on said bladder.

Not only am I un-glanceable and de-sexed from the breasts down, but the being responsible for my condition is having a merry time reminding me.

Thanks, you little Parasite(2).

Of course, hot guys are digging around in a sewer. And one of them has long hair. Aaaand the other just scratched his arse with a bulky gloved hand that was just holding a drain hose.

Fantasy so over.

Tomorrow morning is my mid-point ultrasound, where we hope the Parasite2 is healthy and limber.

Keep your fingers crossed (or maybe wide open?) that s/he’s bits are on full display.

I will honestly be completely shocked if this is not a boy. There are either male bits inside me, or this is one evil girl. At least I am finally off the Diclectin (although mid-afternoon can still be a nauseous time), and the painful acne has been beaten down. Note drugs were needed to combat both.

Share: Did you find out the sex of your babies while pregnant? Why or why not?

All of you, for the most part, have at least one child. Some, I know, have more, or know they want more, or are pregnant with subsequent kids.

So I’m really curious to know — being pregnant with our second, and last, child — how will you, or did you, decide the age spacing of your children?

We always knew Lucy would be at least 2 before we’d want to be pregnant again. “At least” turned out to be “within days of her second birthday,” but I am loving how it turned out. At 27 months, Lucy is just adorable right now. She’s still controllable, she’s a cute chatterbox, she listens and plays make believe and generally is completely edible. Lately I’ve been saying if I wasn’t already pregnant, I’d want to be.

I’m also loving the seasons of this pregnancy: I went through the real crappy times when it was still cold out, and am now in the energized second trimester in late spring/early summer when I can still easily run after Lucy and garden and paint and travel in the nice weather. This *should* also play out well with transitioning Lucy into a big girl bed, and potty training her this summer.

I also needed to make sure that life could — and would — return to some semblance of normalcy, even if it is a “new normal.” You know, that our evenings would once again be free (Lucy now goes to bed around 7:30 p.m., and sleeps until 7 a.m.), that we could do stuff with and without her, that my sense of self wasn’t lost (just altered) and that the world really does continue to exist and function after kids.

Finally, from a completely selfish, body perspective, I got tired of being in limbo: Knowing that I’d be pregnant and breastfeeding again, that my body would change again, that my boobs would change again. I felt like I couldn’t invest in nice clothes or bras knowing that my body wasn’t done morphing. And working out, in some respects, began to feel a little pointless knowing what was (hopefully) right around the corner.

But I think even if you aren’t able to plan your pregnancies — either they’re surprises or take longer than expected — or you adopt or whatever, whatever the age spacing turns out to be is the right one for your family.

Discuss.

One of the worst — and most visible, unfortunately — side effects of this pregnancy has been acne.

Since the fourth or fifth week, I’ve had red, angry, big bumps on my neck and back. They often don’t even fully form, just sit under the skin puffy and lumpy and make-up resistant and eye-watering sore. My back…well, if you connected the dots, you wouldn’t be able to see much skin. At least nothing really touches my neck — but it’s just ridiculous how much it hurts if a bra or tank top strap sits on top of one of these lovelies.

Truthfully, it’s been embarrassing. For the most part, at 29, I’m past that self-conscious stage of life. But these have really bothered me, mostly because of their location. They’re oddly not on my face at all, but at least facial acne is more…normal and accepted and coverable. I feel like a teenage boy who’s shaved with a dull razor. Or maybe shot with poisonous darts.

(It hasn’t helped that, around 10 weeks pregnant, two people I don’t see very often said — within seconds of seeing me — “OMG, what’s that on your NECK?!”)

I keep waiting for the acne to go away, but six weeks into the second trimester it’s allll still here, and I’ve resigned myself that it’s just gonna be until this baby comes out. My doctor, during my last prenatal appointment, saw how bad it was, and gave me a prescription cream with an antibiotic and anti-inflamallatory. Thankfully, it’s really helping to knock down the little bastards once they appear, although there doesn’t seem to be anything I can do to fix the hormonal pregnancy cocktail that’s bringing them on.

My body, however, seems to have its own sense of humour about the whole thing:

A red bump has appeared right in the middle of my bulging belly, directly north of my bellybutton and exactly between it any the centre of my chest. Which means when the bra is off, my torso has two, um, pointy eyes, a bright red bump of a nose, and a wide, stretched-but-not-yet-popped O of a mouth. If I place my hands on the sides of my stomach, it does look very much like him.

Yes, dear lumpy front, exactly my sentiments…

Remember back in March we found out that Julia is closing up for the summer again?

After weeks of thinking and hmm-ing, we decided to stick with her. As one of the commenters, my friend Angie, said, there is always going to be something with any childcare provider you have. And because I have a flexible schedule, work from home and we’re surrounded by great and generous family, we knew we could deal with her closures. It’ll be annoying, but it’s a sacrifice we’re willing to make. On top of that, we just like and trust Julia too much, and want the Parasite2 to go there, too.

Plus, Julia said she’d be very upset to lose Lucy, who she described as a “delight” and a “perfect fit” into her life and roster of kids. Keep in mind the woman has a lengthy waiting list, so it’s not like she couldn’t easily find a replacement…

With that decision made, we turned to the resulting problem of finding someone to look after Lucy for my three work days a week, for the eight weeks of the summer.

I knew I could stretch my 20 hours over three full days, instead of 2.5 like I have been the past months. With this in mind, I figured I could make do with a teenager looking after Lucy from 8 a.m.-noon — meaning be out of the house at the park or down in the basement with the door closed — then work through her nap. If necessary, I could make up any hours on Thursdays, when my Lucy has her day with my Mom.

One lead — a friend of the family of one of Lucy’s daycare buddies — fell through after a promising start. But everything in life happens for a reason, and losing Rebecca had to happen or we wouldn’t have found Shelby.

Shelby’s 13 and lives across the road. She’s a beautiful, friendly girl with olive skin and brown hair who loves soccer. I approached her dad during on of his daily runs, and a few phone calls later, we secured ourselves not only a summer caregiver, but an eager babysitter for any evening out — who still has five years of school left, and lots of time to be wanting to pick up extra cash.

Jackpot.

We didn’t realize just how lucky we were — and great Shelby is — until this Tuesday, when she came over to meet us a bit more and spend some time with Lucy. My daughter took to this girl like no other stranger or even family member. Lucy chatted her ear off right away, played toys, was totally fine when we left them alone, and even gave her a hug when she left.

Good luck? Karma? Older — but not too older — girl idolhood?

I’m not going to question the caregiver gods who have sprinkled their magic dust on us once again. I’m just making silent prayers, blowing kisses in the wind, and am really damn thankful.

p.s. — thanks to all of you who left comments with suggestions and encouragement on that last post. It really means a lot!