From there, it was a series of questions about my period, my general health, family history that Mom had to help with and my personal life, which Dr. Cardiff explained as her ensuring I was safe and would be safe for the duration of my pregnancy. I had to admit to her, I had zero information on the baby daddy, which she gave me no crap for, but due to those gaps in knowledge, she did recommend the extended genetic-testing options so we knew exactly what we were dealing with. It was a blood test, she said, which she needed anyway for other tests, and what was a few extra vials?

The conversation wasn’t too bad, taking about ten minutes total, and yielded an approximate due date on when the baby would exit my spew parts to join the world.

“Since you know the exact date of conception, we can comfortably say around February sixteenth of next year,” she said. “You’re eleven weeks along.”

“Aquarius. I like Aquariuses. Smart and logical,” my mom said, because she was totally into zodiac stuff and read her horoscope daily. This probably isn’t so surprising, considering she was the woman who saddled me with the big-ass hippie name.

Dr. Cardiff smiled. “But with a hint of Pisces. They’ll be creative.”

That surprised me almost as much as her rainbow unicorn tattoo, but it also made me more comfortable with her, in general. She reminded me of my mom, only more butch and a little more badass because of the tattoos. When she asked me to scoot to the bottom of the table and drop my heels into the footy stirrup things, I complied, albeit awkwardly, and waited for the delicate pawing and coldness that had happened the first time I’d found myself in that position.

Mom reached for my hand and I gave it over. There was the squirt of lube as the doctor got ready to prod my no-no parts for the first of what would probably be many prenatal crotch delves.

Weirdly, the speculum was warm this time, and I looked at the ceiling with wonder that I didn’t feel like she’d violated me with a Popsicle. That’d been my one takeaway from my last go-round with a gynecologist—that all medical implements were stored in freezers to make you as antsy as possible during your most vulnerable moments.

“It’s not cold,” I said, awe in my voice.

“That blue thing on the counter is a heating pad. You get a cold speculum up your wazoo once, you never forget it, or at least I don’t, so I try not to use them,” Dr. Cardiff responded.