Mixed Sac.

I will write a meatier update tomorrow, but am posting briefly so as not to be held responsible for any heatstroke deaths as a result of the white hot flame of anticipation that is surely lapping at your heels even now as you pace your living room, wondering about my ultrasound. I am always thinking of others, you see, and their no-doubt insatiable curiosity about the inner workings of a Target-shopping, progesterone-oozing editor who may or may not be writing this while reclining on a couch and balancing a small bowl of Cherry Garcia between her breasts (we call that “multitasking.”)

Anyway, the ultrasound went well. Sort of. It is hard to tell. Good news first: there were two heartbeats. This is more than good news—it is stupendous news, better than any news I have had, ever, better than macaroni and cheese or the comma (two of my favorite things), better than Hugh Laurie appearing on my doorstep nude and bearing a first edition copy of Leave it to Psmith.

But the sacs are measuring small.

They look bigger than last time, and more…sac-y, and they contain fetal poles with beating hearts that resemble oysters opening and closing their mouths (if oysters have mouths). And the heart rates were fine: 124 for A and 122 for B.

However. Last week, when I should have been five weeks, five days, both measured five weeks, three days. Today, when I should have been six weeks, five days—or, with a week of growth, at least six weeks three days—B’s sac measured only five weeks six days and A’s was one day ahead at six weeks even. The nurse practitioner was less perky than last time, and I will be returning Wednesday for another ultrasound. My beloved OB, on the other hand, was not at all concerned, told me the machine has a one-week margin of error, and dropped my miscarriage risk down to 25% per Science Baby. Then he gave me a vigorous pap smear and starting talking about “delivery” and how he’d like to take me off work at “24 weeks” as if these were actual things in my future, which made my head spin. This evening, presumably he will mount his pig and fly home to an icy hell.

I am fretting, a little. I am doing it quietly, because Scott is firmly in the “nothing to worry about” camp and gets angry if I voice any misgivings, but I wish the sacs had been larger. Everything looks just right for six weeks, but as I am supposed to be five days further along than that, it is hard not to worry about being not just behind, but further behind than I was last week.

Am I being silly? Or alternatively, am I doomed? Heartbeats are good! Three cheers for heartbeats! Or two cheers, to be more accurate! And yet, the worry whispers at me, refusing to be muffled by ice cream.