The nurse practitioner assures me that it's probably nothing to be alarmed about. She's sending me for an ultrasound and based on the results the dr. will either have me see a specialist or just check in with her in a few weeks. It's very likely either blahblahblah [insert name of harmless growth here] or blahblahblah [ditto]. Whew, I think.
On a lighter note, after my visit to the OB office, I took my kiddos to the dentist (Caroline spectated, and was overjoyed to receive her own goodie bag). As you might guess if you know him or have read some of my older posts, Ian and the dentist are NOT a harmonious mix. It's a sensory child's nightmare, really, and who can blame him for hating the feeling of that pick scraping across his teeth? Eliza cheerfully went first, and as we sat and watched, Ian looked over at me with these unbelievably miserable eyes and announced, quaveringly, "Mom? I would rather go to a museum full of 1946 newspapers than be at the dentist."
I'm really not sure what's particularly agonizing about the year 1946, but somehow, it's made an impression. If anyone knows of such a museum, please let me know so that next time I can present him with a bona fide choice in the matter!