KickBoy!

Greetings! Guest blogger Rus here. I felt my son kick for the first time last night.

Oh, it wasn’t the first time I tried to feel him, but let’s be honest... he’s my son, so he’s genetically predisposed to be an uncooperative, contrary little bugger. I’d actually seen him move a few times before this; the first occasion was when Stephanie called for me from the bedroom while I was out working on the couch. Typically, when she shouts something like "Rus! Come here!" it's not good news, so when I came running into the bedroom planning all manner of emergency procedures in the back of my head, I wasn't really prepared to see her belly jiggling on its own. It seriously looked like she was having hickups, without the fun comedy noises. Naturally, by the time I put my hand on her belly, El Diablo Minúsculo stopped acting out. Brat.

His movements had been fairly inconsistent so far - sometimes active, sometimes not, but never on anything resembling a set schedule - but I got a sense that might be changing when he walloped Steph a good one during our birthing prep class yesterday. Usually, she gets a slight warning when he's about to strike, kind of a swishing feeling as he moves fluid around. Not this time. He struck without warning, and Stephanie actually jumped in surprise.

Likely that means the fluid levels are starting to thin out, and she'll start getting more regular, if not constant, abuse. One thing left out of my baby stats was that I was apparently a very kicky baby, in and out of the womb. Mom claims her uterus was black and blue by the time I finally decided to start kicking things (and people) in the outside world.

Post-class, Stephanie was lying down with her feet/cankles up, when the boy started acting up again. I put my hand on her belly just as he stopped. Again. Brat.

Stephanie encouraged me to stick around and wait a few more minutes. Oh, why not, the boy's gotta nail her again at some point. I sat down and kept my hand there, and a few moments later, I felt a wee jerk on her tummy. Didn't really think much of it.

"That was him!"

"What was?"

"That!"

"I thought that was you." I really did. It felt like those little belly-spasms Steph has when she's laughing, as she often does when I do something she thinks is silly, like plunk myself down between the sofa and the table and put my hand on Mighty Belly with a stern look on my face, like I'm conducting scientific research. At that point, I noticed Stephanie wasn't actually laughing. She was smiling. And her belly jumped again.

"That's him?"

"Yes, that's him!" Now she was laughing.

Of course, my brain immediately leapt to the "My son feels like laughter!" allusion, because I do write allusions for a living, after all. But then I pushed that nonsense aside and just felt him jump around for a little bit with a big stupid grin on my face before he settled back down. I felt my son moving.

Wow.