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Tuesday, Apr. 06, 2021
1:03 p.m.
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Baby girl, 38 weeks tomorrow, not even born yet but already a jerk. Already fucking with her parents.

My kicky girl spent all of Sunday excited and moving like always. I swam in the pool and she swam in my belly, kicking my stomach so hard I rippled.

Yesterday she was quiet. No movements, or small movements, tiny wiggles instead of huge obnoxious jabs. We tried every trick: laying on one side, the other side, flashlight on belly, drink something cold, eat something sweet, poke her, talk to her, walk, lay still. No more than three or four weak wiggles in response.

This morning, still faint wiggles. So I called out of work and rearranged my high risk fetal management appointment to come in first thing.

There's my kicky girl kicking away happily on the ultrasound screen. Tiny heartbeat. Tiny practice breaths.

The head nurse tells me, "You can always go to emergency if we aren't open." It's what we would have done had high risk not been able to fit me in. Head nurse tells me, "I don't want you to panic every time. Here let me show you what you guys can do. I'm gonna go get The Buzzer."

The Buzzer? I think.

Head nurse comes back with a microphone-looking tube with the top end wrapped in a medical glove. She presses it against the bottom of my belly, where baby's head has been for weeks now, and head nurse unleashes a loud startling sound.

Oh. The Buzzer. Got it.

Baby hurls herself into the top of my stomach, away from the sound.

Head nurse straps me in for the nonstress test. Baby's heart rate, normally 150ish, is at 187 because The Buzzer scared the shit out of her. This is equal parts horrifying and hilarious.

I text husband from my nonstress test recliner that baby is fine, tell him I almost want to cry with relief, he says he already is, and then I actually cry.

Not out of the woods yet, but getting there.

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