It’s amazing how much a brief encounter with a stranger can affect your mood. This morning I trudged off rather reluctantly through the snow to my physical therapy appointment. As usual, I didn’t much want to go–I don’t know why, really, since the physical therapist is perfectly nice and the treatment makes my knees feel better, at least momentarily–but I squared my shoulders and forged onward.

The treatment was routine, but I think there was something bothering the physical therapist. She’s a pleasant woman, in her fifties I think, and though she’s not particularly chatty she’s usually friendly (fairly typical for a Swede, actually). Anyway, throughout the treatment, during which she rubs an ultrasound wand over the painful parts of my knees, she had one of her hands pressed to her forehead as though she either had a bad headache or some personal trouble weighing on her. At the end of the appointment, I left feeling somewhat deflated, as you do when you’ve been with someone who’s in low spirits.

Before I left the building I stopped by the main reception area to pay for my visit, and the woman behind the desk was someone I hadn’t seen there before. The woman who’s been there the past couple of times I’ve gone is a bit on the cranky side (or maybe she just doesn’t like me), so I was a little relieved to see someone else there in her place. To make an already-too-long story a bit shorter, this new woman was very cheerful and helpful and when I left I was feeling very cheerful myself. In fact, my good mood lasted for most of the rest of the day, and it was all down to a few pleasant words exchanged with a stranger.

A few hours later, my mother-in-law came by and picked up Tage so that Olof and I could go to town for our ultrasound appointment (finally!). Again we were met by strangers–the midwife who did the ultrasound and an observing medical student–and again they were very nice. This ultrasound was the first “independent” confirmation of the pregnancy that I’ve had. I’m still enough of an American, I guess, that I’d like to have a professional tell me sometime before the pregnancy is almost half over that I am indeed pregnant. Yes, I trust my body, and yes, I know that pregnancy isn’t an illness, and blah, blah, blah, ad nauseum, but it was still great to see that little beating heart and little waving arms and legs on the screen. I don’t think I fully believed until I saw it that there was really a baby in there.

Everything looked good and measured right with the baby, and our expected due “date” of early to mid-July was confirmed. Olof really wants the baby to come in July (he planned it this way, seriously), but I wouldn’t mind one bit if he/she had a June birthday. Since I typically deliver early, it’s not entirely unlikely, and I know that by the time that last month of pregnancy rolls around, I’ll be more than happy to be done with it. After all, when we decided to try for number three, what I really wanted was a baby, not to be pregnant for nearly a year.