I was so excited on Monday to have my first appointment with the OB-GYN.

Until then, we had weekly appointments with the specialist.

It was bittersweet saying goodbye but I felt good knowing that I had had the best possible pre-natal care that included top-knotch ultra-sound technology.

Even still, I was beyond thrilled to get to know my new provider and really get this pregnancy started!

I chose the provider based on the fact that the practice was comprised of  one obstetrician and two midwives.

Having a mid-wife was important to me because I wanted someone who would be as excited as I was and support ME through the pregnancy, instead of treating me as if pregnancy was some disease that required medical intervention.

OBOMG midwife

After an insane, only people people who work with children in the weeks before Christmas can understand, crazy kind of Monday, I rushed to the office to meet P-Daddy, who was waiting calmly and patiently in the waiting room.

With about 10 other people.

And their offspring.


I mentally made a note not to be judgmental even though 3 of the children were scaling the furniture, others had clearly been waiting for more than a half-hour, and I’m pretty sure the line for WIC was across the hall.

Not. Judgmental.

I’m just an observer by trade.

I was still giddy after 20 minutes of paperwork and another 25 minutes of waiting.

My heart leapt when we were finally called.


We were shuffled to a tiny, cramped, and sterile room with nary a piece of ultrasound equipment in sight.

It had the allure of a PAP smear circa 1950.

Girls Ob Gyn exam


The technician asked the standard questions, changed my pregnancy dates to get the computer data to “line up” and handed me a scratchy robe and informed me I needed to remove all my clothing.

What the duck?

I came here for an ultrasound by a hippy-dippy, crunchy granola eating mid-wife that didn’t require the removal of my pants and a super awkward de-robing in front of someone who isn’t even allowed to witness the transition from work clothes to jammies.

OBOMG hippie midwife


OBOMG Speculum

When the mid-wife finally came in to greet me and my naked self….oh, hang on.

She didn’t greet anybody.

She walked herself in and began perfunctorily typing away at the computer.


Nice to meet you.

My name is Shana.

I’m sitting here naked on this table, covered in what can only be described as pink cardboard paper, trying to avoid contact with my husband, and you can’t even plaster a fake smile on your face and say hello?

Or perhaps congratulations?

At this point, you should be under the assumption that this is my very first baby appointment ever in my whole life but you haven’t even bothered to look at me and ask me a direct question. 

I answered more standard, non-eye contact requiring questions.

Then she made general assumptions about our conception based on my history with a reproductive endocrinologist.

No, I interjected. 

She looked puzzled.

It was spontaneous?


Planned spontaneity, I suppose.

I was being seen for endometriosis. 

But you didn’t bother to ask. 

And I imagine that would be important information to have to determine the level of risk and status of the pregnancy.

She proceeded with more medical questions.

Do you have a history of mental illness?

I have a history of depression. 

Were you ever on anti-depressants? How do you feel now?

OBOMG antidepressants

I stopped taking anti-depressants 10 years ago. I haven’t had symptoms of depression for years. I feel, um, not depressed.

Well, we recommend you see a therapist.

Excuse me?

Because some women experience depression and postpartum depression, we recommend that you establish a relationship with a therapist.

I am a therapist.

Oh. You should still schedule at least one appointment.

I think I’m educated enough to understand when to reach out for help for my symptoms and I’m doubly sure my husband, whom you haven’t acknowledged thus far, would have my ass in a shrink’s office faster than a fat kid eats cake if there was even one inkling that I was struggling to function. But thank you for undermining my ability to have even an iota of self-awareness. Perhaps you’d be less inclined to give me your robotic recommendation if you’d take ANY time to get to know me?

Then the appointment proceeded as a standard gynecological appointment.

She didn’t explain anything she was doing.

Not even when she started using the doppler to listen for the heartbeat.

OBOMG doppler

The doppler she used wasn’t even of that caliber. There wasn’t even a screen.

She searched for the heartbeat for a few minutes.

Then contritely told me she couldn’t find it, but she would try again in a few minutes.

Her only “reassuring” comment was that some babies are “active” and hard to find.

Listen, bitch-wife, you better thank the Lord above that I have had the Cadillac of care for the last 12 weeks and haven been able to see and measure this little plum’s heartbeat for the past month and a half, and am confident that the Peanut is just trying to get as far, far away from you as possible.

Just like Mom and Dad should be doing.

She got the doppler back out and located the heartbeat but I was too defeated to feel excited.

And overwhelming sense of disappointment washed over me.

Maybe my expectations were too high.

Maybe my hormones were getting the best of me.

Or maybe you simply suck as mid-wife.

I’m sorry your office is so clearly unorganized and understaffed. And I’m sorry you made the not so intelligent decision to move from what could only have been the ghetto of Baltimore to one of the poorest cities in the state of Delaware. I’m sorry you’re so cold and miserable and perhaps I should be referring you to some really great mental health agencies, but I expected more out of you.

I expected you to smile.

I expected you to get excited for our first appointment.

I expected explanations for everything you were doing and everything that would happen in the future.

I expected you to at least fake it even if you felt none of those things.

I just expected more.

At home, I unleashed all the frustration that had been accumulating during the appointment.

After my husband consoled me, and my sister listened and empowered me in the way that only sisters can, I made the decision to find another provider.

I was not going to “endure” these next 6-7 months.

I was going to be excited about them and I was going to find a provider that would be at least half as I excited as I am.

Or at least pretend to be.

Today marks 13 weeks!

Sadly there are no pictures to see but if you listen really carefully, you can hear Me, P-Daddy, and PB breathe a collective sigh of relief that we (hopefully) never have to go through that again!

OBOMG greatest adventure

 And that sign, purchased from Target, is going right over PB’s crib!



Let’s recap the last week:

1. I got hungry a lot.

2. I felt so good I felt like a could run a marathon.

3. I’m already second- guessing my parental decision making.

Let’s break this down.

1. I got hungry a lot:

This week was the return of the cravings. The best thing about making it to twelve weeks was, well, making it to 12 weeks. The next best thing was realizing that I can legit start eating more foooooooooood. Because, holy cow, am I hungry. I try to keep it healthy with oatmeal, bananas, sweet potatoes, edamame, vegetable soup, stir-fry’s and other nutritious eats, but the craving monster demands greasy burgers, pizza, and doughnuts. Eating vegan prevents me from indulging in most of those, but it does not protect me against the vegan treats that come out of my own kitchen including caramel corn, chocolate fudge, and cookies.


It’s a good thing my energy is coming back……..

2. I feel so good I feel like I could run a marathon:


Don’t get it twisted. I don’t run marathons. But I did pregnant-lady speed walk my first 5k. And even then I got third place. After a couple of 80 year old men. Forget running, I’m going to start training to beat those walkers…they can hustle! I can only aspire to be as fit in my old age…or even the age I am now.

I did take PB on a little morning run earlier in the week. The ultra-sound a few hours later showed that PB was still running around my uterus at a pretty good clip! Little marathoner in the making. PB might be two inches but I swear one inch is all legs. Must take after P-Daddy because that sure as sugar ain’t me.

Though after three trimesters of pregnancy, I fully intend on calling myself a triathlete.


3. I already started second-guessing my parental decision making skills:

Listen, I’ve been a parent for an approximate hot minute. There’s a steep learning curve. So you trust what your doctor tells you. Like when they tell you there is a magical genetic screening that can tell you if your child is at risk for genetic defects and simultaneously tell you the gender at about 11-14 weeks.


I talked it over with P-Daddy and we decided we would like to know our genetic risks for no other reason than being able to prepare ourselves for potential challenges. We both want to know the gender so paying a mere $25.00 to get all that information seemed to good to be true.

And it probably is.

After the screening which involved blood work from me and a cheek swab from P-Daddy, I discovered this little news bit:

“Oversold prenatal tests spur some to choose abortions”

The gist of the article (click on it for the full article) is that this type of genetic screen is highly inaccurate. The particular test we were recommend clocked with the highest accuracy rating of 83%.

In education, that’s the equivalent of a B.

I’m more of an A student.

83% is not really acceptable.

What is especially sad and disheartening were the women in the article who chose to abort based on the test results.

Due to possibly inaccurate test results.

That’s horrifying.

What does this mean for us?

First of all, the test is a SCREEN. It is NOT diagnostic and should not be used for diagnosis.

They recommend further testing if the fetus is determined to be at risk, and our care team made that clear.

You can check out more info about the Natera test that we chose here.

It seems only logical to take the results with a grain of salt.

God gave me PB and I don’t return gifts.

We will try to use any information we get to make future informed decisions.

And you can bet your behind I will be doing a lot more research before taking any test, whether it’s recommended or not.

With that said, I have only the utmost respect and gratitude for every person I came in contact with at our doctor’s office.

Thursday was our last appointment before they release us to the obstetrician.

Every single person in that practice was extremely patient, kind, helpful, and supportive.

They even gave us this cute little care package filled with books, magazines, and other baby items.



The care I received there was  the best medical care I have ever received from any facility in my entire life and I will be forever indebted to them.

So this week is bittersweet.

We are leaving the professionals that supported us through these last 12 weeks (well year, actually) but we have our first appointment on Monday with the obstetrician and mid-wives that will carry us through the next six months.

We also made our announcement to the world that PB is on the way!

Peanut Christmas Announcement


That was a secret I didn’t think I could keep for one second longer.

12 weeks

Thanks for supporting us on this epic journey!

Merry Christmas, Baby!

You know what pregnant ladies do shots of?



We do shots of frosting.

With a chocolate cookie chaser.


Christmas is magical again.

All the decorating, the books, the movies.

They all have a special new meaning.

Because this Christmas brings the best gift of all!


We made cookies.


Danced to some Christmas tunes.

Little Feet

And even did a little decorating.


Some more than others.


And either PB or all those shots cookies got the best of me.


It’s ok though.

I’ll make the sacrifice for my right, jolly old elf.


Merry Christmas, Peanut Baby!