Tiny Dancer

It started with the flu then turned into a cold then became vomiting three days before I could miss my period. We took the first test five days early. It was negative. I cried.

Then it was the day my period was due and I’m fudging my way through my French final in the seat closest to the door in case I have to flee to the bathroom to throw up. I couldn’t remember anything I’d studied and barely cared that I might screw over my 4.0. All I could think was, “I’m pregnant. No, I can’t be pregnant. Am I pregnant? Nuh-uh. There’s no way I’m pregnant.”

I’m pregnant.

As they’re rolling in the ultrasound, I’m fighting through the flashbacks, trembling and deep breathing so I don’t hyperventilate. They found the baby quickly. As they’re zooming in, I’m waiting and hoping for them to say it.

“I see a heartbeat.”

I lost it. I was choking and crying. My husband whipped out his phone to video it for me so I could see the heartbeat blip on the screen, because every time I moved they lose sight of the baby.

Just as he hit record they all gasped and began to coo, “the baby moved.”

I’d been calling him a little tyrant because of how incredibly sick I’d been, but he changed my mind with that one little twitch. I felt like he was saying, “I’m fine Mommy. Now tell these people to stop pressing that thing down on me. I’m trying to sleep dammit.” In fact, the more I watch the video, the more it looks like he’s batting away the sound waves and rolling over to get away from the camera. Sassy little mite.

Here he is. My tiny dancer, with a heartbeat.