The calming influence of The Other Half...

Tonight we had a horrible scare. I had my routine 31-week midwife check and all was going well until she started to listen to the baby's heartbeat. Normally this is a wonderful few minutes when yes, you do have to roll your top up, lie back and have cold jelly squirted onto your stomach, but you get to hear the amazing thudding heartbeat of your child in utero.

'It's very fast at the moment,' she said, and scribbled some numbers down on her pad. 'We'll listen again in a minute.' Repeat process. Same outcome. 'I'm going to listen for 5 minutes this time, as it's still not coming down.' Five minutes passed, more numbers scribbled. 'The baby's heart rate is very fast, and it's not coming down. It's around 190 bpm and the normal rate is between 120-140. This could be nothing to worry about; it may be the baby is just having a particulary busy afternoon in there that we've caught the middle of. But I'd like to send you up to the antenatal unit at your hospital to be on the safe side.'

We went to hospital, where I was hooked up to the fetal heart monitor (a very large, cold metal belt with a sensor on the buckle to record the baby's heartbeat) and checked and prodded by several midwives and an obstetrician. I've never seen so much graph paper in my life, and it was all coming out of the machine I was rigged up to. Finally, after three hours sitting in this room where women in varying stages of labour pain were coming and going, with The Other Half making conversation in an attempt to keep me calm, the doctor gave us the all-clear. Turns out they think I have a particulary active baby in there. But if I feel any pain at all, or the baby stops moving at all, I'm so go straight back to the unit. Relief.

Thank God everything is alright. And that The Other Half was with me - I would have been more of an incomprehensible quivering wreck had he not. He took us out for tea on the way home, and I burst into tears waiting in TGI Fridays for my chicken wrap. I think the enormity of everything hit me. I'm going to be a mother. And worry about this little person forever.

Pink or blue...

Yesterday, The Other Half and I trooped off to the hospital for another visit to the Antenatal wing - this time for the 20 week (anomaly) scan. Oh my god - that means we're halfway through! Eek! The sonographer spent ages checking the little wriggler's measurements (and it lived up to its name - it wouldn't stop wriggling! Squirmed about all over the shop then appeared to spend quite a lot of time with its backside in the air, mooning us - which resulted in some pretty rubbish scan photos), looking in detail at all its organs etc. (amazing to see its little heart beating in so much detail) and generally making sure everything is developing as it should be. It is, thankfully. Then came the question we'd been dreading because we didn't know the answer to it. 'Do you want to know the sex of the baby?'

Argh! Now, we have talked about this quite a lot. I said I would only want to find out if we didn't tell anyone else. The Other Half said he didn't think he'd be able to keep it to himself. Then we decided that we'd quite like the surprise, and the only reason people find out anyway is so they can start buying pink or blue clothes in advance, which is a bit of a rubbish reason to be honest. But when the sonographer asked, it suddenly dawned on us that this wasn't a hypothetical question anymore. We looked at each other, unsure, and I asked the sonographer if she knew what it was - 'Oh, I know the sex,' she replied. 'Do you want me to tell you?' Double argh! Yes but no!

We didn't, in the end. I think the surprise will be worth the hard work.