Shannon Phillips

I felt the baby move for the first time last weekend! It wasn’t a kick, really more of a …flutter. I told my friend Grant and he says he’s heard many women refer to the baby’s first movements as being “like a goldfish in a bowl.” I have to admit that’s pretty apt description.

Just back from the doctor’s office—the highlight this time was hearing Baby’s heartbeat on doppler: a distinct, speedy thrumming, set against the slower tidal rhythm of my own body.

The lowlight was getting stuck with needles. Again. Every time I see the doctor they want to draw more blood for some test or another. I think I’ve had about a dozen vials taken so far. The blood drawing process itself has established a familiar pattern: I sit down in the little booth. A smiling, fresh-faced young person introduces themselves as a student phlebotomist, and asks if I mind them drawing my blood. I tell them I don’t mind, but I warn them that everybody has trouble finding my veins, and it might be best just to hand me off to the senior person on staff.

They tie the rubber strap around my arm and start tapping my elbow. They make small talk, asking about my weekend plans and so forth. I clench my fist while I answer. They are very very nice, but on the vein front nothing is happening. The nice young person says “hmm”, unwraps the tourniquet, and tries it on the other arm. We repeat the process. They tell me my veins are tiny and refusing to protrude. I tell them I’ve heard this before.

If the nice young person is particularly energetic, they will proceed to stick me with needles, sometimes two or three times before giving up. Sometimes they move to the other elbow, or even my hands. It doesn’t work. Today I was lucky and the nice young person gave up without even trying. Then the nice young person goes and gets the little old asian lady who knows what she’s doing. I don’t know why it’s always a little old asian lady, but I’ve been through this rigmarole several times at two different lab sites, and apparently in San Francisco it’s always a little old asian lady. Today her name was Soong. She doesn’t waste any time with chit chat, just swabs me down and slides the needle in, effortlessly, painlessly. In a few seconds we’re done.

Next time I think I’m going to insist on seeing Soong, or whoever the Soong-equivalent on staff happens to be, from the get go.

No morning sickness for the past two days! I think I’m cured. And I’m typing this at nine forty seven at night, which means the fatigue has gotten better too.

My baby books say that Junior is now the size of a peach. My waistline has expanded accordingly in the past two weeks—only one pair of pants still fit. My mom (“Nanita” to you, Junior) tells me that a package of maternity clothing is on its way. So that’s totally exciting!