This week has been strange. I have been first-trimester level tired all week; barely moving from the sofa all day, crying when I had to clean things (like the bathroom. and dirty clothes), falling asleep on the sofa before the end of the 7th Inning. Plus I've been adjusting to feeling Little Kick do ALL the movements. Husband has now finally felt, and seen, her dancing all over my stomach, like I have the sort of food poisoning you see in cartoons.
I loved feeling the little movements- little reminders that she was there, happy. Then on Monday they started getting really intense and big and, quite frankly, forceful. And honestly, despite feeling like the worst person in the world for saying it out loud, I stopped liking it so much. On Wednesday morning she kicked so hard it actually woke husband up. He loved it, and I had to remind him that I could actually feel it INSIDE ME when she did that, and I really wasn't loving it. I begged her to stop. Which she did. For the rest of the day.
This brings us to my next spiral of parenting shame- I desperately wanted her to move again, but I know that babies have periods of a LOT of activity then periods of none- they basically sleep 20 hours a day in there, so you can't be surprised that they are still for large chunks of time. I was really patient. I felt the odd movement once or twice which kept me satisfied until I fell asleep on the sofa far before actual bed time. The next morning, it was the same. The odd little movement- enough to stop me calling the doctor and demanding they tell me EXACTLY what she was doing in there right now, not enough to stop me googling at-home foetal heart monitors which I was going to buy that very night. I decided I was going to MAKE her move. I felt guilty that I couldn't be satisfied and just let her sleep, or relax, or face my back and kick round there or whatever it was she was doing, but I had to know that she was ok, and disturbing her as much as possible seemed the only way.
I did my yoga DVD. Nothing. I went for a hot shower then downed an ice-cold bottle of water. Tiny flickers. I went for a walk round the park across the road. Nothing. I drank a mini can of Sprite. Tiny flickers. Eventually, I gave up. I'd felt her a bit, and it would have to be enough. I sat out on a sun lounger with my book, exhausted after a morning of worrying and ridiculous endeavours. And she went mental, kicking and spinning like mad. *sigh* Little Kick is most definitely my daughter- happiest when curled up with a book. She continued to be super active for the rest of the day, proving that she was, in fact, just sleeping and honestly couldn't be bothered with my nonsense.
Which brings me to this morning. I woke up to some fairly average movements. I got up and had a cup of tea, reading the Caitlin Moran back catalogue on the Times website- a seriously limited time offer since their paywall was down. I laughed so hard at one point that I broke into a coughing fit. And then I realised I had a really sore stomach. Like, all stretched out and painful and horrible. I looked down and realised the baby was STICKING OUT THE SIDE. Like, a big lump out of nowhere that felt all solid and baby like. I'm not going to lie, I freaked out a
lot little. I started gently rubbing the weird baby-lump, and she obviously found this extremely irritating and swooshed her way back into a more sensible position that didn't cause me any pain. I was incredibly relieved.
So there you have it, I am an ungrateful, spoilt lady who doesn't appreciate the miracle of life inside her. I feel like a terrible mother. Ah well. I'll probably just have another cup of tea. To quote Mr Bennett: '...The feeling shall pass, and probably much more quickly than it should...'