Tuesday, April 26, 2011

For those who don't obsessively Facebook stalk...

So here we are, making our photo d├ębut as two conjoined entities: the fetus and me. A lovely sunny photo exactly on the 14-week mark: so 3 1/2 months pregnant. It doesn't stick out but so much yet, but if I sit still at the right times of day I can feel it wiggling its little arms and legs. At least once, I've woken up in the morning to inform the Husband, "your baby is awake. It's moving." It seems to particularly like to move in the mornings once my bladder isn't encroaching on its personal space.

It's terrible that I keep calling my baby "it". I know that. Sometimes, I've taken to saying "he" instead, but I don't really have a feeling for whether Piggly Wiggly is a boy or a girl, and typing out Piggly Wiggly every time I need to refer to my unborn child takes just enough time to make me not do it. I feel like I should start a poll to guess the baby's sex. That said, it'd be a boring poll as there are only two choices (I do not concede to the possibility of a hermaphrodite baby...the odds are probably quite staggeringly against it anyway), not to mention, I'm not planning on finding out what sex the baby is until he's born. Unless, of course, Baby decides that the suspense is too much (or it doesn't want to be dressed in gender-neutral greens and whites) and brazenly flashes the sonographer in another six weeks. I figure, if the baby is waving its bits for the camera, who am I to deny its clear request that we buy it gender-appropriate accessories in preparation for its arrival? If my baby is already that concerned about removing any ambiguity about its sex, I'm perfectly willing to respect those wishes. In the meantime, the policy is to wait and see.

The other policy is to healthily prolong the moment at which I officially weigh more than The Husband. Even though it'll be because I'm technically two people, that is a day best kept in the distant future. However, the gaining of sympathy weight to postpone the inevitable is not an option. I refuse to see his trim figure hidden under love-handles, man-boobs, and bingo wings. Thankfully, he refuses to see this happen, too. Great minds think alike.

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