Except instead of annoying her awake, I did some of her favorite things: I ate blueberries and turned up the volume on her favorite radio voice Neil Cohen. Occasionally she would give a movement that I assumed was the equivalent of the shrug-eyeball roll combo. But for the most part she acted like Tuesday was a spa day, a special session with her signature amniotic fluid treatment. Whenever I started to be a little, "C'mon, Little Girl. What's happening in there?" she would head butt my intestines or try to climb my ribcage so I guess we're psychically linked or something.
Everything changed the next day and by Thursday I was Googling: 33 weeks pregnant too much movement?
It was like an earthquake.
It was like fireworks.
It was like the choreography from "Flashdance."
It was like Gallagher having a temper tantrum in a tiny bedroom.
Sometimes it tickled, sometimes it hurt, sometimes it was just a nuisance.
And every time I gritted in discomfort I thought to myself: Remember that time you made a 15 second video of this movement because you liked it more than watching TV? Oh the naiveté of being 30 weeks pregnant.
I learned that walking provides a soothing rhythm that even works in utero. I also learned that sometimes a person might have uterine muscle spasms because of all the Braxton Hicks-ness going on. I learned that wild in the oven might also mean wild out of the oven. I learned that when I hypothesized that being pregnant would feel like cupping a frog in my hands I was exactly right.
Anyway, since those two days all has returned to normal. I can again find her flailing completely adorable.
Chuck finished the big to-do items on Operation Baby Bedroom. It looks like this:
About 10 minutes after telling Chuck that I am "totally the kind of person who will poop during delivery," he was quietly scrolling on his phone.
"What's up?" I asked.
"Just researching pooping during pregnancy," he told me. "The majority of women do it."
"Even if the majority of women didn't do it, I'd still do it I bet," I told him.
"Those who report NOT doing it either a) just don't remember or b) are among the rare few who don't do it," he said.
"Although," I said. "Considering I've become regular even during the adverse conditions of being pregnant AND taking iron pills, maybe I'll be cleaned out and I won't."
"Some couples make a pact beforehand," he said. "That if the woman isn't comfortable being seen at her most vulnerable, her partner won't be in the room. OR that if she DOES poop during delivery, her partner promises to never mention it again."
Clever touches from a coed BBQ shower with Chuck's family last weekend: