Write about a good discovery you have made

The floor is hard under my back, despite the extra thick cushioned carpet. My left arm is cramping under my side. I am not looking forward to rolling onto my back.
I slide the small, stuffed animal bear out from under my tummy and press my palm into the ground. The carpet is soft to the touch, if not a bit scratchy. Shifting my weight, I roll like a beached whale. My back pops in protest, my spine flattening under my bulged belly. Ah, much better.
I take a deep breath through my nose. Camphor mixed with Vicks Vapor Rub flavors the air. The smell makes me feel like a little girl again, and for a moment, I am transported back to my childhood bedroom, with My Little Ponies wallpaper, and pink bedspread. The memory fades as Hesston goes into a coughing fit. My body cringes as I listen. I wish I could take away his misery.
I'm half way there. Half way to the finish line of pregnancy, and today, at 8 am, I get to find out what I'm having. A boy or a girl. The anticipation has me wide awake. That, and the fact that Hesston needs him mama in his room for comfort since he's sick. The floor has been my best friend lately. It makes me much more thankful for my bed. After laying here for a couple nights, my bed is softer than the tops of clouds. Forget pillow top.
The baby begins to move. It's tiny limbs thump against my hands. Feeling the baby move is a miracle all on it's own. It's a sign of life. Something I won't take for granted.
The clock on the tabletop says 1:48 am. I wonder if I can sneak out without Hesston noticing. I doubt that, since I sound like a herd of elephants when I move. But I try it anyway.
Not only does my back pop, and my shoulder, and my knees as I maneuver a standing position, my neck decides to pop too, which sends a mild warning to my brain that a headache might follow. Great. I refuse to let this day go badly. I've waited for it for too long. 20 weeks is a long time when you're nauseous, tired, and grumpy.
An alarm wakes me from my drifting dreams. It's been that way most the night, but I figure it must be time to get up if the alarm is going off. After all, I asked Ted to set it at 7 am so we had plenty of time to get ready.
"Hello?" Ted answers the alarm. Wait, it's not an alarm...it's a work call. "Yes." He rolls over in bed and leaves the room.
I don't dare look at the clock. It's probably earlier than I wanted to get up. But maybe I should take this as a sign, and just do it, since I haven't been able to sleep much anyway. The anticipation has my mind running in circles, despite my body's sleep deprivation.
It's 6:35...not too bad.
I listen to Ted. He's trying to sound awake and alert, even though he just barely woke up. It makes me smile just thinking of how much he must be concentrating to stay up with the conversation. I wonder if he's awake. He'll have a full on conversation with me, and not remember a thing after he's woken up.
The curiosity drives me out of my warm sheets, into the cool morning air. The chill brings me to full awareness. There's no going back now.
Stumbling to the bathroom, I decide to take a shower. Maybe shave my legs. I have enough time to actually do those things now.
The shower is short lived, the water turning cold before I even get my shaver out. There's still conditioner in my hair, and I haven't rinsed the soap off my body. But it's only been 15 minutes, my mind complains under the cold spray. I make a mental note to ask Ted how big the water heater is, and if we can get a bigger one.
Goosebumps raise the hair on my arms and legs as I towel off. I try to hurry, but get more frustrated by the fact that my legs are worse than I thought. Good thing the ultrasound doesn't require me to take off any clothes, just expose my big, billowing belly.
Hesston's awake, I realize as I rush to the bedroom, needing clothes on to warm me up.
Ted has him sitting at the kitchen table, eating breakfast, already dressed.
"What time is it?" I ask as I sprint like a turtle across the house.
"7:04" Ted answers.
"What?" My 15 minute shower must've been longer.
"You about ready?" Ted rounds the corner. He's dressed and ready to go. So unfair.
I really hope this baby is a girl, just so that I can have someone that'll understand the stress of getting ready under an hour. "Almost."
We clamber into the truck 10 minutes later. My makeup is on. My hair is dry. My clothes are on. My breakfast is in my lap, ready to be eaten. And we're still on time. A small miracle.
The lady at the hospital checks us in and we head back to the labs/radiology area. There's already half the seats taken by the time we sit down. I didn't realize it was going to be this busy first thing in the morning. I comb my fingers through my hair, embarrassed that I ran out of time to straighten it. Maybe nobody will notice.
Hesston has Lightning McQueen and Blaze. His engine sounds roar across the room. Eyes turn toward us. I try not to react to the stares. I feel like a typical mom right now. Disheveled, and ready for a nap.
The ultrasound technician comes into the waiting room, calling my name. She approaches quickly, explaining that the machine is broken, and will take some time to fix. She asks us if we can come back after our doctor appointment at 10:45 am.
I stare at her. I really want to like her. Really. I do. She's got a very kind, round face. Her eyes are open and understanding. She's the type of person you can't dislike. But in this moment, I'm tempted to dislike her. So much that my hands begin to tremble in my lap.
I glance around the room. The other patients have expectant eyes on me. I can't have a meltdown now, in front of all these people, who are probably expecting it, seeming how I can't even do my hair for an appointment.
No! This can't be happening. The machine can't be broken. That's impossible. This is my day. My day. The day that I find out what I'm having. There will be NO problems. Nothing will ruin this moment. Not even the ultrasound machine. After all, if being up all night, taking a cold shower, having conditioner still in my hair, a full bladder, a sore back, and a headache coming on doesn't ruin my day, nothing will.
The tech stands there, waiting for our reply.
Words have left my vocabulary. Which is probably a good thing, because at this moment, all I feel is frustration. Red, angry, ugly frustration. An emotion I despise. I try to gulp it down, but it jumps right back up.
"No." The word pops out of my mouth. "My husband has to work."
"Can you come back another day, then?" She looks hopeful.
I shake my head. Open my mouth. Close it. Look at Ted. A few seconds tick by.
Ted's voice is much calmer than how I feel. "It's okay. We'll just do the 10:45 after our doctor appointment. I can just work a later shift today."
"Okay, great!" The technician looks relieved now. "We'll see you later."
I wonder if the confusion of what just happened is written all over my face. Ted reads it, ignores it, and pulls out his phone. He rapidly types a message, which I am sure is to his boss, letting him know what just happened. What did just happen?
My mind spins. No. No. No. No. No. We got here on time, even with a sick little 3 year old. We're ready (mostly). And we're going to find out what this baby is, today.
"Now what?" I ask, my mind numb.
Ted doesn't respond.
"What should we do? Stay here? Go home? Go somewhere? My appointment is at 9:15."
Ted still doesn't respond. He must be having just as hard of a time as I am.
"What do you think, Hesston? Do you want to stay here? Or leave for a bit?"
"Stay here!" His announcement is loud and clear, bringing more eyes, and probably ears.
"Well, we could just drive around." Ted's suggestion is music.
"Okay. Yeah. I don't want to get him exposed to more people if we don't have to."
After loading back up in the truck, I glance in the mirror. Bad idea. My hair is flat on the top of my head, then busheled out on the sides and bottles. I look like a witch who's lost her hat. I need to go home. Now.
"Take us home."
"Home?" Ted is more confused.
"Yes, home. We have an hour. I need to fix this." I point at my witch hair.
He nods. "Okay."
As we pull up to the house, he asks if he should just wait in the truck with Hesston. A slight giggle escapes.
"No, this will take more than a few minutes." I reply.
Back inside, my hair straightens better than ever. I send up a silent thank you to the heavens. Maybe conditioner in my hair isn't such a bad thing.
My phone rings just as I am about to head upstairs and get the boys gathered to head back to our appointment. It's the clinic. I answer.
They ask if I want to come in at 9:45 for the doctor so we don't have to wait so long between appointments.
I agree and hang up. To my delight, this gives us an extra half hour at home.
Hesston is playing with his cars, enjoying having mommy and daddy home. It's a treat for me too. But my head is pounding, so I curl up and lay down on some pillows on the floor next to where he's playing.
Ted and Hesston join me a couple minutes later. It's a bonding moment as we all curl up next to each other. I cherish this moment, because I know it won't be much longer until our world is shaken up with a new little one joining our lives. 
We're back at the office being ushered into the doctor appointment. Since I have the ultrasound right after, I've been drinking water all morning. The person who confirmed my appointment suggested a quart of water. I haven't peed since last night, and I've drank at least a quart this morning (being a good student). The urge to pee hits me like never before. I have a bladder like a camel, meaning I can hold it, no problem. But this is insane.
The black cushioned chair I'm sitting on becomes hard as rocks. It's also too square. I need something that doesn't angle my baby on my bladder. That has to be the problem.
I keep asking Ted for the time as we wait for the doctor to come in. 9:45. 9:59. 10:05. 10:09. 10:12. 10:14. 10:28. 10:33. 10:37.
I try standing up to see if that helps the ache in my abdomen. The sudden pressure makes me flex my thighs just to keep it in. Nope. That doesn't help. I ease back into the chair, using my arms to support most of my weight. If I used my stomach muscles, there'd be no more dry pants.
This can't be happening. Not now. I only have a few minutes left to this ultrasound and I'm not going to fail on my end. I will do what they've asked and have a full bladder.
The doctor finally comes in. She asks me 2 questions and then sends me to my ultrasound, saying she will tell the tech that I have a very full bladder (understatement of the year).
I have to recheck in for the appointment. As I push the door open to reenter the waiting room, my bladder begins to burn. Yes, burn. The pain is awful. I don't think I've ever felt anything like this before. I can imagine the fluid backing up into my kidneys, poisoning me and my body. A slow death.
The lady checking me in is nice, and tries to hurry (she notices that it asks for a full bladder and makes a joke about how I've probably been holding it all morning). She has no idea what pain I'm in.
I wobble into the labs waiting room. Back here again. At the scene of my near meltdown. As I lower into a chair, I have to sit on the edge.
"Ted, I'm going to pee my pants." I chant to him over and over.
He gives me a few sympathetic looks and words between taking some work calls and texts.
Hesston is fixated on the TV, which has some Real Housewives reality show on it. I cringe at the images and wish they would change the station to something more kid appropriate. If I wasn't afraid of peeing myself, I would march over to the window and ask for the remote. But I can't. I'm stuck. If I move, I lose.
The pain becomes too bad. I swear, the baby must be jumping up and down on my bladder, trying to get more room. I need more room. I get up and search for a bathroom. I go to the wrong hall, flip a U-turn and return to the waiting room.
Ted is following Hesston, who appears to be trying to catch up to me. I guess I was moving faster than normal.
"There's no bathroom down there. I will have to go back out front." I announce to Ted, and probably the whole waiting room.
Ted, being the problem solver he is, asks the receptionist where the closest bathroom is. She directs us to the right hallway. Thank goodness, it's in the waiting room, but the other hallway. The one I didn't check. Of course. Just my luck.
I rush to the bathroom, getting there just before my bladder explodes.
It's 10:50 by the time I get back to the waiting room. I ask Ted if they've called for me yet. He shakes his head, no.
A few minutes later, the sweet technician comes back into the room. She calls my name and I practically run to her. Hesston and Ted catch up at the ultrasound door's entrance.
She has me lay down, which is harder than it sounds. I find myself really having to think about still controlling my bladder as I relax onto the hospital bed. The bed is surprisingly comfortable. I wonder if it's due to my nights on the floor, or if this is typical. If so, I wouldn't mind a little rest and relaxation in one of these.
The pressure from the ultrasound is bearable, and I am so glad I went to the bathroom and drained some of my tank. I would've for sure peed my pants laying down, had I not.
She goes through a bunch of different measurements, labeling them with abbreviations. I try to decipher them as I watch. She's fast. Super fast. But not fast enough. The seconds tick by like minutes, and it feels like I've been laying there forever. The waiting is driving me back to my meltdown stage.
Keep it together. Keep it together.
"Mommy, you okay?" Hesston asks. "You're tummy hurt? You cold?" Ever the sensitive boy. "Baby in tummy? Hesston's turn?"
His questions distract me from how long this is taking.
I take a deep breath. It's as sterile in here as it is in the rest of the clinic.
 Ted voices his question. "So can you tell what it is?"
He must be just as bound up with anticipation as me.
"Yep. Just did."
Instead of telling us, she pulls up a picture. The label on the bottom pops up as:
"IT'S A BOY!!!"
Ted bursts into tears, and I am filled with joy. We're having a boy.
"You can go ahead and go to the bathroom now." The tech says in a very kind voice. "It's so full that it's hard to get good pictures for you to take home and display. So you can go and then come back and we'll get some pictures."
I laugh as I rush to the bathroom. So full...yeah right...should've seen it 15 minutes ago.
But all that pain, rush, and disappointment was worth it. Because in the end, we just got some of the best news. News that is life changing. We will never be the same.