Wriggling

Quite a productive evening! Spent an almost not unhealthy amount of time discussing baby names on ScaryParenting, bought The Toddler a mattress, watched Big Fat Gypsy Weddings (my, that's an astounding programme!), and done some ironing. Note that that's SOME ironing, not THE ironing, so perhaps I shouldn't be quite so proud of myself.

I'm now sitting on the sofa, sipping Diet Coke (but not too much, gotta watch the caffeine intake. Apparently) to see if it will wake The New'un up. I've reached the stage now where I can feel it wriggling around on a regular basis. I like it, it makes me think that it's happy. I realise that's a bit stupid - it's not moving because it's happy, it's moving because it's an unborn child and that's what they do - but it makes me smile a bit anyway. For now, at least. Right now, the movements are all nice little pops and flutters, that feel pleasantly like it's just saying hello. I like this stage better than what's coming. I know you're supposed to love and cherish feeling the baby move, but The Toddler was one hell of a wriggler, and I've got to admit that she just freaked me out more and more as she got bigger. She writhed, and wriggled, and kicked, and batted, and punched like my internal organs had done her wrong. She flipped and flopped and somersaulted like me when my restless legs kick in. At times, I thought she was trying to bust her way out, Alien-stylee. Random bits of her would suddenly stick out of my belly, and try as I might, I could never identify which bit it was. My colleagues got used to me putting down my minutes in the middle of meetings and trying to poke it back in. Which never worked, by the way.

Alas, things are no better now. She just does it to my face, rather than my innards.