Expecting

Last night, for the first time, I believe I felt my baby kick. There have been flutters before, but I wasn’t sure. As the pregnancy has progressed, there’s been all sorts of movement down there, not all of it pleasant, and it’s hard to distinguish one sensation from another.

But then there I was, in bed, lying on my left side between the soft mounds of my brand new “pregnancy pillow,” when I felt his foot (or his hand, his something) jab my insides softly. A second later, it happened again, and then a few jab-jab-jabs in quick succession, as if he were testing out a butterfly kick. Gas bubbles and bathroom warnings don’t have so much substance. It felt unmistakeable. It was him! I laughed to myself with utter delight. It doesn’t come as a surprise; this is the expected milestone at 17ish weeks, and I’ve seen him move before on the ultrasound screen. That, too, was magical. My husband and I watched him—who had been in the previous ultrasound more of an “it,” more alien shrimp than human—brandish his fists and bend his knees. He turned his head from side to side, a tiny ski-jump nose visible in the profile of his (relatively) giant head. He was the size of an avocado. I laughed then, too. Out of joy, of course, but also because it seems absurd that human bodies are allowed to do this. You mean the same body that falls off of curbs and drips ice cream on itself and makes all those nonsense noises and smells? Surely this bag of bones couldn’t be capable of something so rigorous and complicated and elegant.

And yet, there’s an ever-evolving baby in there, now the size of a turnip, and he can press on my inner world with such strength, his touch reaches my own nerve endings, alerting my brain of his physical presence. He is becoming, and last night, after the kicks, it occurred to me that he is already a separate being, even though we’re technically connected. The little patters of his feet remind me that he’ll have his own agenda, his own path to walk. I feel so much love for him already, but in a close second is profound curiosity.

Will he love to read? (Dane and I are desperately hoping.) What will his “style” be? What kind of people will he surround himself with? Which music will make him bob his head and belt the lyrics? Will he play sports? Will he become absorbed in learning a craft? In truth-or-dare, will he choose “truth” or “dare”? Will he be afraid of bugs? In part, we can guide him in some of these areas, but it’s ultimately not up to us. And, frankly, we have a long way to go (a road paved with diapers and spit-up and applesauce) before any of these questions will be answered. But there’s still a part of me, the part that felt the force of his little foot, that wonders if my baby’s personhood will somehow show up behind his eyes right away, before he has language for it—maybe even before we, as parents, have language for it. Oh, there he is, I can picture myself saying in recognition of his expression. He’s a fighter, or He’s a lover, or He’s got something to say. I just have to be careful my perception of who he is doesn’t get in the way of his own. I can’t wait to meet him.

No, better: I can’t wait to get to know him.