Last week I thought I felt the baby move for the first time. It wasn't like popcorn popping, as I've heard it described, but it was more like a "whooop!" It felt as if the baby had just made a dramatic turn from being on its belly to being on its back or vice versa. Could I have been imagining it? Yes. Could it have been some new form of gas that I've not experienced? Yup. But neither of those things sounds as romantic as feeling the baby kick for the first time, so I'm going with my original version of the story.
I'm having issues calling what's growing inside of me "my baby." I still refer to it as "it" and as "the baby" or just "baby." Besides being ravenous most of the time and needing roomier, more comfy clothes, this whole pregnancy thing still feels foreign. I probably say that every time I write or think about being pregnant. It's such a prevalent thought, though, because all I hear is how magical this all is and how amazing and incredible I should be feeling. I am definitely excited to be having a baby, but I get no sense of fairies flying around me sprinkling magical dust on the paths before me. Isn't that what's supposed to happen? Am I missing out on something? All I know is that when I'm in the car or at my desk or laying on the couch, I feel content putting my hand on my stomach and imagining what's going on below it and what will be in six months. Yowzah, six months.
I am trying to make this interesting, guys, really I am. But I'm getting tired and will have more to say tomorrow, when we reach week 16!