Heartbeats

Today, at my wife's prenatal doctor visit, we heard our baby's heartbeat for the very first time.  It was about 160 beats per minute.  Today was also the day of the Boston Marathon, and there were 2 bombs that exploded at the finish line, stopping several heartbeats, and probably increasing the heart rates of the runners who already had elevated heart rates due to the miles that they had just run.

My wife and I are both runners.  We've each done two half marathons, and several shorter races.  In fact, one of the first purchases we made for our yet-to-be-born baby was a jogging stroller so that we can take him or her out with us for runs when he or she is old enough.  We are hoping to share our love for the outdoors and physical exercise with our child whose heartbeat we heard today.  Neither my wife nor I are elite runners; women in our age group qualify to participate in Boston if they can run 26.2 miles in 3 hours and 35 minutes or less.  We are not part of the Boston community, and yet as runners, we are a part of that community.  It may sound strange to those who don't run, but runners share a common bond over the miles we run, the challenges we choose to take on, and the dedication we put into such an individual sport.  And because of this, I feel a connection to those runners and race spectators in Boston today.

It is a very strange juxtaposition to hear our child's heartbeat for the first time on a day when some of the best members of our running community were threatened and injured by bombings.  I am overjoyed and deeply disturbed at the same time.  It makes me worry about the kind of world our little one will grow up in. I know that bad things have happened all throughout history, and that this really is nothing new.  It just feels a lot more personal this time.

9 Weeks

     At 9 weeks, this is our child.  S/he has a beating heart, a brain, little arms & legs, and is growing every second of the day.

     Going to our first prenatal doctor visit was interesting.  First, we met with a financial representative to sign a bunch of paperwork and make a down payment on our baby.  It felt a lot like buying a car.  After we set up our payment plan, we went in for the ultrasound.  Our ultrasound technician was a woman who was probably in her late 50's or early 60's.  She splatted some lube on her little wand-camera, crammed it in, and was very matter-of-fact about every kooky thing she said.  "Well, there's your bug," she said when our baby sowed up on the screen.  It was exciting and reliving to get to see the baby, but it felt as though we were sharing an intensely private moment with some lady we had just met.  She kept pointing things out to us in the ultrasound and then saying, "But, please don't tell anyone I said that.  I always get into so much trouble but I never learn to keep quiet."  I wanted to give my wife a kiss, but when you're gay, you never know how people are going to react to very simple and natural exchanges of affection, so I refrained and instead asked questions as though I were in a biology class.  The most interesting answer: our baby came from an egg in my wife's right ovary.

     After the ultrasound we were sent into a room to wait for almost an hour.  After we had run out of ways to entertain ourselves with the surrounding medical displays and supplies, a crabby nurse came in and asked my if I was my wife's mother.  I am 1 year older than my wife.  I couldn't help myself, "What?  Are you serious?  Her mother?  Do I really look like I could be her mother?"  This probably wasn't the best way to start off with her, but I doubt she asks any men if they are their wives' fathers.  "Well you guys look alike," she said.  We do not look alike, and even if we did, I would have had to have been pregnant at 1 year old.  I kind of suspected that what she meant is that all lesbians look alike to her.  She asked a few general health questions, took blood pressure, and then luckily she left the room so that the real nurse practitioner could come in.  

     The nurse practitioner immediately recognized that we were a couple and congratulated us on our coming child.  She asked for my last name and said she wanted to be sure that she had the last name right for the baby.  As we talked, I learned that our nurse practitioner raises chickens and double digs her organic vegetable garden--I really liked this lady.  Plus, she was knowledgeable about nutrition and did not mind answering our questions.  It was a relief to finally speak with someone I felt I could trust and learn from.

     We then met with another person and were scheduled for something like 16 more visits, were sent to have my wife's blood drawn, and then let back into the shining world after about 4 hours with a free diaper and a photo of our very tiny, but steadily growing child.  It's amazing how the whole exchange was just another day at work for the people who helped us, but to us, it was a life-changing event that brought our little family face-to-face for the first time.