For weeks now, the Mister has been eying me like trafficking donkey. Seriously. He knows there’s something smuggled inside. He can see some of my symptoms — but it isn’t real 100% yet. Why? Because he hasn’t felt “the kick.”
Hounding me like a dog on a trail he asks almost daily “have you felt any kicks, yet?” “Do you feel our son?” “What does it feel like?”
And for several weeks I continued to disappoint him with my inability to feeeeeel.
But Shannon, the book says you should feel it by now – you don’t feel anything?! – he and I would both think
First task as a mother? FAILURE.
Awesome, I’m off to a great start.
Each day I would concentrate super hard until I was certain I could actually feel the food digesting in my stomach. Nothin.’ Nada. Zilch. Motherly instinctual bonds with baby? HA. All I could bond with was indigestion.
Then one night as the Mister and I were falling asleep and I went thought my usual routine of trying to get comfortable…it happened. Like a butterfly flapping its wings or the flickering of a cat’s tail, it happened. I shot upright and all of a sudden my stomach wasn’t just a harborer of a peacuful, growing child. It was a cavern for activity!
I turned to the Mister and woke him with a start.
“He’s moving, he’s moving!” I screamed. “Quick, see if you can feel him!”
“Ok honey, that’s great, put the marshmallow in the shoelace” (or insert some other incomprehensible response)
So I sat there alone in the dark smiling like a fool, beaming with pride for each little flutter. That was of course until I started feeling like I was going up and down on an elevator and my smile quickly turned to oh-dear-god-not-the-nausea-again.
Bring on the “soccermom” sweatshirt, I think I know where I’ll be spending my Saturday afernoons.
If you ever see me sporting this, you have permission to run me over with a semi. Seriously.
Note: the Mister did not ever make me feel bad or inadaquete for not being able to feel the Little – he’s just a very, VERY excited daddy