I had to run to the doctor's today for a quick ultrasound, just one of those "well, look, your baby's still alive, now go out there and we'll all pretend you're not eating your weight in french fries every chance you get" sorts of things.
(Which I totally did last night. But in my defense, my friend Liz introduced us to a new Greek place we hadn't been and I also ate my weight in hummus, dolmades, and gyros. So there.)
When I settled onto the table today, the ultrasound tech said, "Okay, we're going to go in there and see if she's growing."
"Pffft, I could tell you that," I replied. "And so can all those exciting new marks on my stomach."
"Oh, stretch marks are a new thing for you, huh?" She asked, sympathetic. There are women for whom the appearance of stretch marks constitutes an existential crisis of sorts, after all.
I just laughed. She actually couldn't get any readings for a minute, I was laughing so hard. When I was finally able to stop myself, I said, "Oooooh no. I reached my adult height by 13 years old. Trust me, they're not new. I just wouldn't say I missed them or anything, is all."
So we went through the whole process - she printed out pictures, told me what this little blob of static means as opposed to that one. Sometimes I recognize things without being told. Some things are just immediately recognizable. She assured me that I'm still having a girl, and I replied that that's good, since I would be very confused if the Wee Baby Faulk decided to switch things up in there now.
Once we were done, she and I chatted for a couple of minutes while she looked at the measurements on her screen.
After a second, she stared down at my legs. So did I. They still looked like legs to me.
"Um," I start, this seeming as good an opening line as any, "What?"
"How long are your femurs?"
"... my femurs?"
"Your baby's femurs are measuring really short. That's usually a soft marker for Downs, but we'd know if your baby was Downs by now. Do you have really short femurs?"
"Well... I am five feet six inches and routinely buy pants made for people who are five feet tall just so the ends won't drag."
"Hm," She said, nodding thoughtfully. "Stand up."
So I stood up. I'm very cooperative.
"Yeah. Yeah, you've just got short femurs. Well, it looks like she's going to take after you on that."
"Aw, poor thing."
"It's not the worst thing in the world."
"Well, no, but my in-laws are all willowy and skinny and have long legs. My husband has nice long legs. His sister is basically a supermodel."
"Oh. Well... she'll be fine."
So there you go, Wee Baby Faulk.
This is what I passed down to you, mother to daughter.
This is my gift to you, from the genes of my farmer ancestors going back generation upon generation.
You shall have short femurs.