Crane Kick

Last night after dinner, Mike and I were sitting on our couch watching LOST, Mike's hand placed over my swelling belly. For weeks now I have grabbed Mike's hand to feel the baby move, only for the babe to settle back into inactivity after a single round-house kick ("Take that, mom! Wham!"). Mike would place hand over belly button, feeling, waiting. And nothing. I'm not sure what regimen that kid is on, but he flutters constantly and then gives me a swift, fetus-sized Karate Kid "crane kick." He focuses all of his energy on that single forceful movement and then lapses back into meditation and repose. Yoga? Yota? Last night, however, Mike finally felt the baby kick, tiny foot to body-sized hand. It was final, astonishing proof that my swelling body is hiding a growing son, a wriggling, fluttering, baby boy. No Rorschach ink-blot test that was the ultrasound ("Do you see his face there?" "Uh...." "ope...therewenthislegs!!!"), no beating moniter suggesting a heart within, but a physical connection, son to father, through a thin boundary of skin.

Ultrasound Results:

IT'S A BOY! (Chinese calendar wins). With little fingers, little feet, a little beating heart, little bones, a little nose. We saw them. Even his kidneys. His lips.

He waved at us. Squirmed. And then kicked at us for being so invasive. Can't a little man-fetus have some privacy, for the love?

I'm at the point where

I grunt unnecessarily when I have to put on socks or shoes or pick something up off of the ground. You'd think I was pulling a thousand-year oak tree out of the ground bare-handed. What happens when I actually can't touch my toes (assuming I could before)?

I can't button the top button of my jeans. And consequently the universe has given me unmitigated permission to wear stretchy pants and elastic waist bands. Why did no one say so last Thanksgiving?

Because I don't look obviously pregnant (just pudgy, really), I must seem strangely fond of my growing midsection because I pat and rub it constantly. Like a kitty. I wish the baby purred.

The baby isn't big enough to kick me good and hard, just tickle my insides like butterfly kisses and indigestion. If the baby does not flutter me at least once a day, I worry it has disappeared somehow. I'm not sure where I think it goes, but worm holes and alternate dimensions are not out of the question.

My insides have rearranged according to feng shui, apparently bringing greater universal harmony to the space of my body. Oddly, this means that my stomach is located somewhere around my sternum. And I'm not sure my bladder exists anymore.

God Grew Tired of Us

Last night, Mike and I watched an excellent documentary, God Grew Tired of Us, detailing the plight of the 25,000+ displaced Lost Boys of Sudan who fled their country during the brutal Second Sudanese Civil War (1985-2005). As small children, these boys traveled hundreds of miles through the harsh deserts of Sub-Saharan Africa and braved starvation, dehydration, attacks by wild animals, airborne bombings and military attacks to reach refugee camps in Ethiopia and eventually Kenya. Thousands died during the journey. In 2001, the American government relocated over 3,600 to America and gave them means to begin life anew. This documentary focuses on the stories of four boys, following them as they adjust to American life.

I highly recommend this film, even though it broke my heart. The breaking made me more grateful and aware of the difficulties and suffering some face and survive gracefully.