No one will be suprised that a full 48 hours after my little fender bender I have been gripped by a terrible fear that something is wrong with Meatball. It seemed like he started moving less and less and my back was starting to hurt. My mind was doing what it does so very well: obsess about horrible things happening. It's annoying enough that my back genuinely does hurt, but I suppose that could be because I spend a lot of time carrying around a healthy 14-month old or I spend ALL DAY carrying around this freaking breasts, which are NOT SMALL and petite. (These breasts are brought to you by the letter DOUBLE D and growing.)
So, I finally broke down and called the doctor to ask if she could fit me in for an ultrasound or heartbeat check or something diagnositic and reassuring so I don't have to go insane this weekend. They are going to fit me this afternoon.
Don't you know that the minute I made the appointment and surrendered to just going to the doctor to get more information Mr. Meatballs started his Cirque Du Soleil routine? I am pretty sure he's using my womb to hone a new move he'll patent when he's about 12.
I am still going to the doctor. It can't hurt to get a little more information and to hear the beat, beat, beat of Meatball's little ticker.