You know, I don't care how long you've been blogging, or how many entries have been accidentally eaten by a crashed browser window, or how many times you've SWORN you'll remember to save as a draft more often, or how many times you've typed something along the lines of FUCK FUCK FUCK instead of attempting to rewrite the thoughtful think-piece that just went *poof* into nothingness, IT IS REALLY REALLY FRUSTRATING WHEN THAT HAPPENS, FUCK FUCK FUCK. GAH.
"Hilariously" enough, my browser crashed when I opened up another tab to conduct a Google Image Search for treble clefs so I could have a point of reference before drawing one on Noah's magnadoodle, which he then promptly erased. Oh, the "irony."
(He then asked that I draw Steve, but was bitterly disappointed with my stick-figure depiction, even though I think I did a pretty good job on the striped polo shirt, especially, you know, ON A MAGNADOODLE, but WHATEVER, kid.)
Eh. I think the entry kind of sucked anyway, and was mostly a lot of filler leading up to some belly photos. So...let's just say filler filler run-on sentence CAPS LOCK filler and...photo time!
So the crazy sick bloating of the first trimester finally settled down, leaving me with a perfectly reasonable 16-week belly. Unless I eat French fries. Those things still inflate me up like a bike pump. A delicious, golden-brown bike pump. I'm mostly wearing maternity clothes because hell fucking yeah, I've been waiting for an excuse to slip back into elastic waistbands for two whole years now. Sure, I can still pretty much suck that gut back in to nothingness, but why should I? You wanna fight about it?
Some days, though, it really isn't until I catch a glimpse of my profile in the mirror that I even remember hey! Right! Wow. I'm not unwieldy or too terribly uncomfortable yet, nor am I getting regular kicks to the kidneys. I still occasionally gag on a smell or taste and size up the distance to the nearest plumbing receptacle and I could sleep for 36 hours straight and still whine about how goddamn early it is, but mostly I feel pretty good. In other words, not very pregnant.
Jason has taken a turn for the superstitious and still thinks it's too early to think about names or onesies or what the hell we ever did with the crib screws. I started a half-hearted Amazon list for the stuff we gave away or broke or left behind on a curb in DC during a prolonged fit of Moving Hysteria, but I have no urge to buy anything because...what? I just peed on that stick three weeks ago, slow dowwwwn, Mabel. The conflicting ultrasound measurements and multiple due dates haven't helped either, but have instead left me with a vague feeling that this whole "infant coming to live at my house" thing is still a fluid, hypothetical event. Tour dates yet TBA, check with your local ticket agent.
But then every night, I squirt my belly with ultrasound goo and gently swirl the doppler microphone through it, and within seconds, there it is. The baby. My baby. Our baby. I can tell when it's sleeping by the slower, quiet rhythm, and when it's awake everything is faster and punctuated with a lot of static and interference from tiny flailing limbs. Every night, the heartbeat is loud and steady and reminds me of a freight train, barreling down the tracks, ready or not, here it comes.