And it's kicking.
I felt the first kick while lying in bed, on my side, and was so surprised that I looked behind me, to make sure that the cat hadn't poked me in such a way that I felt it deep in the pit of my stomach. Silly, I know. The next kick was in the car, and, since then, they've been multiplying, so that my days are punctuated with flutters and thumps. At 23 weeks, the baby's got a full repertoire - multiple thwaps in quick succession, gurgles that simulate the feeling just before the rollercoast drops off the top of a peak, single pows like a neon bubble in a Batman show, rolling lopsided pushes.
In just two weeks, I've gone from feeling no kicks to feeling a baby Rockette routine - how could I not have felt these before? The baby must have been doing a few warm-up stretches and a fan kick or two before busting out with all of his/her moves. They're even strong enough now that Sean can feel a little something when he rests his hand on my belly.
Sometimes I feel like the baby and I have a secret bond, a link that grows stronger each day - he/she's doing all this wiggling around, and I'm the only one who knows. Sometimes the thumps get a bit distracting, especially in the middle of meetings - often the perfect time to be distracted. We're swaping off cycles of motion, with the baby keeping up the physical activity during boring meetings. It's nice to know he/she's not a lethargic little couch (or uterus) potato and that, as pregnancy slows me down, the baby's speeding up.
Even with the kicks, with the undeniable proof that there's something living growing inside of me, I don't feel much more...motherly. If I think about it too much, it's a little creepy, in fact. It's alive. Inside of me. Doing whatever its little baby head tells it to do, without any consideration for me, or, more importantly, my bladder. The physical connection is stronger, but the little one is still so much a mystery to me.
