Oh my gosh, I'm pregnant.
As in, I am almost TWENTY THREE weeks pregnant. There's no hiding the obvious - my belly is round and firm, I'm getting my glow on, and my breasts are ginormous (by my standards)! My beloved and I recently dropped close to $600 on maternity wear, a prospect I swore I'd advoid at all costs, and as I type, FedEx is unloading our beautiful sleigh crib into our tiny apartment. Other physical give aways include my inability to hold in gas of any kind, subconscious rubbing of the abdomen, and literally toting my Snoogle Maternity Pillow with me everywhere I go.
As excited as all of this makes me, there is a simple, intimate, beautiful sign of pregnancy that up until last night, only I knew of - the quiet pitter patters of my lovely little one's shoves and twists. For a long while, I worried I would never feel the movement inside, but over weeks 16, 17, 18 I grew to interpret some of my incessant gas as the presence of Kangaroo. At our 20 week ultrasound, I cried and gasped at the amount of physical activity going on inside - I could see her little fingers wiggle, her body spin, and mouth open and close - but I couldn't yet feel the detail of her moves.
'Roo likes to move at night, after I've settled for the day, off my feet and on my Snoogle. Stacey lovingly rubs BlackThorn body oil all over my tummy, waiting waiting waiting for the slightest "Hi Dad!" kick. On two occassions, I've woken him from a dead sleep, positive he would be able to feel the bubbles going on in my belly - he couldn't, and for future reference, doesn't like being woken up at 2 am.
We were both on the brink of lights-out last night, when BAM! Hi-Ya! Kung Fu Girl/Boy showed us her stuff. I quietly thanked God just then, as I glanced down and saw not only Stacey's huge, proud grin, but also his hand upon my belly.