Tumbling 10-ounce babies, Braxton Hicks, and bodies

Two weeks ago, while blathering on about Flamin' Hot Cheetos (I wish that phrase was not applicable in almost any circumstance any day of the week...), I continued to impatiently wait to feel the baby move. 

The internet told me I should be feeling the baby move around that time, as I was into my eighteenth week of pregnancy. The internet has also told me, repeatedly, that Donald Trump is our president, so I guess I pick and choose what to put my faith in when it comes to internet information. Usually I choose denial.

But I was still antsy to feel movement. 

AND THEN I FELT IT. THAT VERY AFTERNOON. 

So listen, I don't know if you've ever had a live being moving about the cabin that is your body (probably 80 percent of you have, hi), but I can't even describe it. Like, I've eaten a lot of tacos before, and that definitely makes my midsection real uncomfortable, but tacos don't have arms and legs. 

[pause]

... they should.

[un-pause]

I felt what seemed to be little bubbles popping in my lower abdomen. I pressed my palm really firmly into the spot, and THE TINIEST LITTLE BUBBLE TAPPED MY HAND. I FELT IT ON THE OUTSIDE OF MY BODY. I HAVE BEEN BOOPED BY A TINY, 10-OUNCE HUMAN BEING.

"And that, son, is the story of how you booped me," I'll say one day, retelling the story to him and his first girlfriend when he's 32.

Folks, that was two weeks ago.

In the time since, I have apparently grown a horse-jumping gymnast pole vaulter. What is even happening in there? And how does something so very small move so very much? He is now, per the internet, about 10 inches long and weighs just over 10 ounces. As I look down at my belly at this very moment, I have no idea how something of that size is living in there. But the fact that I can feel his every move is no longer shocking. 

It's so strange. 

If I didn't know any better, it almost feels as though my organs are delicately trading spaces, movement by subtle movement. There is no other way to explain what it feels like to have a developing actual person waving its arms and legs inside your very body. And to feel it from the outside, if I press just firmly enough and wait long enough, WHOA. 

I can't even imagine what this'll be like in another 10 or 12 weeks when that baby is much larger, when my body is much larger, and he's performing aerial gymnastics at sundown.

Help me.

And so, the developing news of week 20 is baby movement. And, apparently, my first few Braxton Hicks contractions. 

THAT is a sensation that makes me fear the real, live version. It doesn't hurt and it isn't scary, necessarily, it's just... uncomfortable for about four seconds. I thought the baby was perhaps doing a somersault or otherwise trying to claw his way out of my body as I saw and felt one half of my abdomen tighten... hard. It felt like an object was turning over in there. And almost as quickly as it started, it all went back into place. 

Congratulations, Krista. You survived a miniature contraction that is barely even a fraction of how rotten the very real thing will be some day. GOOD JOB! APPLAUSE!

Help me.

Other things of note: hunger, per usual. And although running has gotten slightly more comfortable at times for my bladder, my abilities are still very much dwindling. On Memorial Day, as almost a final hurrah to the good days of running, I ran an entire 8 beautiful, comfortable miles. I was overjoyed. 

I then spent an entire day with an aching pelvis and sore hips, quickly and begrudgingly learning my lesson about doing too much. My standard now is about 2 to 3 miles, maaaaybe more, if I'm lucky. And far less often. 

Which brings me to my body. Which is changing. This is still ever-so-slightly hard for me. I truly haven't noticed weight gain anywhere but my expanding belly (and boobs. Lord, the boobs...), but I feel like I'm just waiting for it to happen. I'm nervous about that. The first place weight goes is my face. It eventually shows in my arms and legs. But my face. I stare at it in the mirror every day just daring it to budge. 

DON'T YOU DARE, FACE. 

That fear is rooted in my own body insecurities. When I find myself flipping through photos from the last several years, noticing the obvious, yet slight, changes in my appearance. I can see the physical differences. The good months and years versus the bad. When running was at its peak versus when my training was lackluster or my pelvis was broken. 

And now, my running is dwindling and I'm growing a human being. I'm fairly certain I've done the math correctly when I say my body is doomed. I'm not even good at math, but I am super confident in my deduction. I will show you my work. I didn't even use a calculator. 

Sigh. 

I know this is the moment when e-ver-y-one will sit me down to say, "Krista, no. You're growing a baby! Your body is meant for this. Let it happen." And yes, yes, that is poetic and lovely, and yes, of course, I know my body will expand in lots of ways to make room for this boychild we have built with our own two hands... er, parts... but, I wish it all just stuck to my stomach. I really do. That is my true dream, which I know will go unfulfilled. 

I know it is vain and I know it is the last thing I should worry about, but if you knew the very long list of things I actually worry about in this life, I swear you'd be like, "Oh, this is fine. Worry on!" 

So I have this very delicate battle in my mind right now while I try to balance living healthfully, but also wanting to eat fucking everything, exercising carefully, but also wishing I could run ten miles every day, and trying to hang on to any semblance of the body I once knew, hoping it'll return to me one day. 

Now that you all think I'm a giant selfish asshole, hello! It's wonderful to meet you. Welcome to my blog. Read more, you'll find out I get worse. 

PREGNANCY IS NEAT! 

But we've had a blast in the last several days familiarizing ourselves with having a son. We purchased exactly two pajamas for him over the weekend. We also stopped referring to him as it and wondered the sort of nicknames he may have. We're keeping tight-lipped about his name until he's here, so our next challenge will be to remember to even call him by a name one day. He'll end up 15 years old, and I'll still be calling him He and Him and Boy. 

I'm going to be super good at motherhood, you guys. You read it here. On the internet.