I’m officially putting “bump day” in these titles, because lordy, there’s a lift there that wasn’t there a few weeks ago.
(For the record, it doesn’t look like a true bump, although it’s not just a blump anymore at 11 weeks. My husband swears it is a true bump, but also says that someone would have to be studying me closely to see the new rise.)
“People will still think that you’ve only put on a few pounds,” he said cheerfully.
“Thanks, babe,” I replied.
But on to the true subject of today’s title. Because I’m of advanced maternal age, my OB recommended that I take a prenatal cell-free fetal DNA test — what’s known around town as MaterniT21, Panorama, Harmony, and a host of other names (mine was verifi). The test’s purpose is to measure the risk of trisomies 21, 18, and 13. We moved forward since we wanted to be better informed of how the kid’s doing and what decisions we may have to make for the baby’s care.
The test can also report the sex of the baby. This is a secondary concern, but I won’t deny it: it’s nice knowing early.
The relief and joy from the test is this: the baby is at low risk for chromosomal abnormalities. The blood draw was last Wednesday; I received the results yesterday morning and had to sit through a meeting trying to hold back my smile and tears. My OB’s office asked if I wanted to know the sex of the baby; I asked them to email it to us via the patient portal so that my husband and I could open it together.
Walking home, I actually saw my husband exiting the Metro station, walking at his usual clip. Now, my walking has slowed down significantly thanks to my fatigue and the increased blood volume flowing around my veins. But I managed to catch up to him by jogging a bit (gasp, gasp, gasp). We were able to talk about our days before getting to our apartment. After a quick shower for us both, we sat down to open our message.
Here’s how I was trending: I had a gut feeling that it was a girl, but knew boy was most likely given my husband’s family: they shoot Y’s almost exclusively. In the past two generations, there’s only been one girl born (cousin-in-law WHO CAN’T SPELL MY NAME RIGHT). Husband wanted a girl, but also thought boy was most likely. So we held hands and clicked open the message from the OB.
“The sex of the fetus is … female! Congrats!”
We were floored. A girl. We’re having a baby girl.
Husband jokingly asked if this really was his baby.
We know her name already, though I’m not sure I’ll share here. But henceforth, the baby will be known on the 3 B’s as ….
Dubya, for the first letter of her name.
(What? Far from my fave president, but it’s funny. And so DC.)