What Big A Doesn’t Know…May Shock Him

We are at the FINAL COUNTDOWN of Big A’s return and both of us are wicked crazy $%^@%3 excited about it. Even more so than when he was gone for eight months, at least for me. This one’s been tough, mainly because of Little A, obviously, but also because he had JUST finished a tour before going back out. But we had agreed that this was the best option – the other being leaving me alone with a newborn.

And that is a terrible idea.

When he left, I looked like this:

Week 17

As of a week ago, I looked like this:

Week 34

So things have changed a bit. Juuuust a little bit.

We had the following conversation yesterday (paraphrased because I can’t remember shit anymore):

AM: Ugh, this kid and his butt.
Big A: What do you mean his butt?
AM: Well, it’s either his butt or he’s got really big feet.
Big A: (doesn’t get it)
AM: Well, his head is down and to the right and his butt is up under my left ribs and presses out and I can feel it. It’s like the size of my palm. So it better be his butt or he’s got ginormous feet.
Big A: But…how do you know he’s head down? (He was also shocked I could tell body parts)
AM: Because the doctor told me he was and I can also feel his hiccups right above my right hip, where his face would be.

He’s in for it the first time he sees the alien wave of fetal movement from across the room. Because that’s some scary shit right there.

Side story about hiccups: A few years ago a coworker was pregnant and the fetus got the hiccups and made her belly jump. It was the first time I had ever seen a belly MOVE ON ITS OWN and I definitely ran from her office, down the hallway and back to my desk screaming. In heels. Fast forward and here I make my own semi-uncomfortable-with-the-idea coworker put her hand on my stomach so she could feel them. Her reaction was less intense than bolting down a hallway, but I still creeped her out. And I was proud.

I also told Big A it’s now a race between him and my belly button. I don’t know if it can stay an innie until his return. We are edging closer and closer to the turkey timer territory.

Which is quite nearly literal. He is almost fully baked.

I hope he comes with stuffing. Stuffing is my favorite.


I Like the Way You Move

Except, you know, not always. A few times a day to let me know you’re digging your bachelor pad is good. The little kicks that let me know I’m eating something you like are totally okay. The Tasmanian devil tornadoes are not necessary.

Slooooowww dowwwwn. Enjoy your bubble time and the safety of your inner world. Fighting to get out is not helping either of us. You’re not fully baked and I am not the slightest bit prepared.

And for the love of all things, in the meantime, stop punching my duodenum.

I am constantly terrified to look down. I can sometimes see you pop and lock out of the corner of my eye and it seriously disturbs me. I have taken to wearing scarves to cover it up and have come to terms with the fact that my shoes are probably mismatched half the time. BECAUSE I AM AFRAID OF LOOKING DOWN AND SEEING YOUR ARM WAVE FROM MY BELLY BUTTON. My stomach should not look like it has a mind of it’s own. Even though I guess it sort of does at this point.

At night, I am afraid to lift the covers, lest I see a spotlight, red carpet, velvet ropes and a meathead with a clipboard. It certainly feels like you sent out an e-vite to all of your underground fetal friends to come have a rave in my uterus. I hope you’re saving the money you’re making on cover charge, because you owe me. And you better be cleaning up all the red Solo cups. I don’t want to try and explain THAT to my OB upon delivery.

And the kick to the lungs last week that knocked the wind outta me? Could have slept better without that little interruption.

Not to mention, did you sprout like six additional limbs since the January ultrasound? Because I cannot figure out how you can be in 19 places at once, jabbing every square inch at the same time with what feels like a massive amount of appendages.

And that weird scrape you did from left to right the other day? Probably with creepy finger? Yeah, you can just knock that move the %^&# off. The sensation of it was bad enough, but then I pictured you writing out REDRUM and well, now you’re really freaking me the %$@^ out.

A PEEK INSIDE MY UTERUS (artist rendition)

POP! Goes the Fetus?

What up, !@#^& Buddy! Didn’t enjoy the big game?

So. Picture this. After the Superbowl. Feet up on the coffee table. Laptop in lap, as it is so aptly (laptly?) named. Stomach full of junk food. Dog lightly snoring. Cat sneering because he’s part demon and it’s past his feeding time. O’Douls bottle empty.

And my stomach pops. F^&#ing POPS. Stomachs shouldn’t do that. Is it gas? Gross.



My eyes surely bugged out like Large Marge.

I move the laptop, put a hand on the relative location of the pops and wait.


Ho. Lee. Crap.

I have been comparing it to someone popping a can of dough in me. You know, the cans where you peel back the paper and sort of hold your breath because you never know when it’s going to pop open? The ones that sometimes get stuck and you have to whack them against the counter? Yeah, it felt like that. But without the whacking. And inside of my body. And I’ve been craving Orange Rolls ever since. He’s like the Pillsbury Doughfetus.

Curses. Curses galore. Expletives of excitement, obviously.

Earlier in the day I had had what I called my first “Moment”. Capital M necessary. When I took the pictures of the little name tag and outfit, I was in what is now essentially the nursery. I snapped the pictures, looked at the outfit, laid down on the floor in the swath of sunlight and verbally said “Hi” to my little buddy. Picturing him in the little sweater vest seemed to make it a little more real. I even called him little buddy. And just laid, still, for awhile. Thinking. Wondering. It was a Moment.

Fast forward to several hours later and the little procrastinator finally decided to say “Hi” back. I guess he takes after me after all. Procrastinators forever!

Now, about those Orange Rolls…