In the past week, I have finally given in and accepted that I am simply not a giant ball of methane and otherwise putrid gas. Instead, I am opening my arms and saying "YES" to the fact that all of the motion I have been detecting in my abdomen has not been waste product - but rather, THE BABY.
There has been so much movement that I have been able to track my future daughter's awake hours. And let me tell you. . . she keeps my insane hours. Crazy? Crazy, indeed.
Of course, I have taken great strides to ensure that the Hub doesn't feel left out. Every time the Spitfire stirs, I make a point of letting him know. Some times, I even force his hand against my belly and hold it firmly until he feels the movement. That's gratuitous, but I'm pretty sure that mowing the lawn isn't that important!
What? You're eating? Our child is dancing on my bladder! Come feel this!??!%*(^@#!
All of this time, the Hub has been so quiet and confused every time he felt the movement. "Clearly that can't be a real kick?" I assured him that it was and that I was assured several times over by the ladies at work that farts don't kick back.
So, I let it go thinking that he was basking in the surrealism of becoming a father. . or feeling over-joyed with first contact. . or waltzing blindly through wonderment.
No. This was not the case. As we were reading our weekly pregnancy guide last night, as we do every Sunday before sleep, I think it finally sunk in. Our baby, measuring 7.75". . . from crown to rump. I have read something similar to the Hub every Sunday night for nearly 20 weeks. And last night, it finally sunk in. All of this time, my Hub has been mystified that something measuring only 7.75" could be making such significant knocks from the inside of my belly.
I love my Hub. He's so damned attentive. ;)
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