Kyd asks all the time, whenever I stop or slow on our walks. Is dat baby kickin, Mommy?
Oh yeah. Her feet are tiny little anvils. I feel her heels beneath my skin. Sometimes she kicks hard enough that my entire midsection jumps. She’s kickin’ and I’m grateful for every little whack. It’s good to know she’s alive – and fond of orange juice, the sound of my voice and the touch of her father or brother’s hands, pressing back on her feet to let her know she’s not alone.
Despite the discomforts – I’m awake at odd hours, eating strange and unhealthy things (an entire box of Kraft mac’n'cheese for linner yesterday, 8 molasses cookies for my mid-morning snack), waddling where I used to stride – I’m truly enjoying these last few days of pregnancy.
It’s my last chance to enjoy these sensations, and I’m trying to be Very Aware of it.
When my daughter kicks, I feel an unmistakable link to every woman, every where, who has ever carried a child and dealt with the mystery of life. Our fears, our uncertainties, our dearest wishes somehow all come wrapped up in these tiny feet that wake us.
There’s nothing subtle about the wail of a hungry newborn. But the kicking of a nearly full-term babe in the womb is more like a gentle prod. Be aware, Mommy. Life changes soon. The universe changes. Any day now.
When I was expecting Kyd, I was too busy trying to deal with work and other commitments to treat the impending change as anything other than a project. I missed just how very amazing the whole experience can be – it flew right by me.
Now I look at Kyd and I’m dazzled to realize that he grew inside. From two cells to tiny feet and hands, to this independent creature who wants dessert and to read Babar and to play with trains and baseball and ride his tricycle with his friends C. and S.
I’m not exactly spiritual. And I’m rarely sentimental. But these last few days of gestation do feel magical.
We’re fairly certain that baby #2 is our last child. Because we’ve been able to choose when to have children, we’re arrogant about our ability to determine family size based on convenience. It’s contrary to our faith, but honors the absolute realities of college tuition, house size, balancing work and home life. Could there be an accident? Maybe. But I hope not. And I’m 35 now, so hoping that declining fertility favors our plans, despite the fact that my own mother found herself pregnant at 37.
So here I am, awake at 4 a.m. Dat baby is kickin, and I’m in awe.
