I had my first appointment with the midwife this morning, not that it provided me with much of anything to write about. As I’m sure I’ve mentioned before, I’m not especially fond of pre-natal care here in Sweden. Yes, I’ve heard all the lines, from “We expect healthy babies here and don’t go looking for problems,” to “Pregnancy isn’t treated like an illness here the way it is in the States,” and I’m well aware of the fact that Sweden has the lowest infant mortality rate in the world. Even so, I’d much rather do this whole baby-having business American-style.

Anyway, this morning’s appointment was mostly just an hour-long chat session between the midwife, me, and Olof. I went through my medical history, talked about my familial relationships, handed over a jar of urine I’d brought from home, and parted with a few vials of my blood. My weight was lower than I expected and my blood pressure was higher, though it went down to a more normal reading after I sat and rested for a few minutes without the midwife hovering in my face and trying to coax Tage into pushing the buttons on the blood pressure machine. Later on I held up for Olof the 143/106 first reading as proof positive that the woman stresses me out.

Finally, we were given appointment cards for an ultrasound on February 7 and a second appointment with the midwife on February 24, a stack of pamphlets and free magazines, and sent on our merry way. If I hadn’t been through this whole song and dance once before, I would have been entirely non-plussed, but given my previous experience I barely batted an eye when I was assured that they couldn’t hear the baby’s heartbeat before 16 weeks (though my mind was shouting, “Hogwash!”).

At least I got to take a long nap when we came home.