Kick Count

So, these days I am supposed to take some time and count your kicks. To make sure you're moving enough and all that. I find this adorable--I picture a glowing pregnant lady, hands gently clutching her protruding stomach, as she goes, "Ooh! There's one! I think that's another one..." counting these sporadic movements.

Sporadic. Ha.

I would do better to count when you aren't moving. The handful of times a day you are not finding new ways to make me aware of my anatomy. Currently I am sore from your new game of wodging yourself on my right side, using your toes (I think) to gain purchase under my ribs and banging your...head? Shoulders? Against my hip bone. When I lie on my side, as is dictated by every resource out there, you press so hard against the side of my stomach that the skin feels impossibly thin against my mattress. When I read at night I can't perch my book on top of my stomach because you are too busy practicing for your debut on Dancing With The Stars. I think you're doing the Rumba.

I am comforted by your movement, even though I swear sometimes I'm harboring some kind of weasel rather than a baby girl. Even when I wake up 11 TIMES IN ONE NIGHT to pee a dribble of urine, because you are doing something impossible to my bladder. It seems to me that from the day I started feeling you move you've been dissatisfied with your accommodations and you want to get out. I understand. Just sit tight for 8-10 more weeks and then this whole great big world? It's all yours, kid.