I'm feeling oh-so occupied. I stare down at my wild kicking belly, and I'm certain that my students, my colleagues, my guy that serves my apple cinnamon tea with honey are staring too, thinking, Can't you control your baby?
For months, I felt she was a part of me: an extension, a beautiful tender extension, but still very much me; now, though, with each day, she becomes more and more of her own creature.
Last night, pillow-propped in bed, reading yet-another birthing book, sipping on yet-another cup of uterus strengthening tea, I was trying to get her to move for me: Come on, baby girl, I was saying, come on, and my voice shook a little but was all sweet-mamalike and still nothing. Finally, C. came in--Kick, he said, and she kicked.
Hmm...a daddy's girl already? Not quite sure how I feel about that...