In 24 little hours Mr Emu will be driving his fractured ankle, 6 weeks and 6 days Mrs Emu for their viability scan.
This time last year we’d talked about maternity leave, names, life with children and were eagerly awaiting a scan in 4 days time. I’d got sore boobs, felt nauseous in the morning and was exhausted most afternoons.
Almost a year to the date and nothing like this has happened. I’ve bled, been quiet, refused to talk about being pregnant and positively wanted to scream at Mr Emu off for even looking at my breasts last night when he said they looked bigger. They’re not bigger. Well, they might be.
“I’m so excited for tomorrow’s scan!” - NOT. In fact I reckon that’s why it’s arrived so blinking quickly. I don’t want to go at all. I don’t want to be faced with a darken room, those words of failure, and the saddest audible gasp from Mr Emu ever. And if it has worked? Then bloody hell! More waiting and worrying and more months of it potentially going wrong. I don’t know.
Ah. Little peas. Or little pea. You’ve endured so much already. You’ve made it through the biggest of battles already. Little fighter/s. I already feel guilty for not wanting you to be put in me... and I feel guilty now for worrying if you are there tomorrow what pain you might cause later down the line. If you’re there tomorrow... can you just tell me to get a grip? A little sign over the scan monitor will do.
So I’ll check in tomorrow ladies (and gents!). What’ll be will be. It’ll be cake or Gin by tomorrow lunch. x