The two of us outside of our front door. People who haven’t seen our glorified studio ask if we’ve prepared the baby’s room yet. People who have seen the apartment ask if we’ve cleared out a drawer for the baby to sleep in.
The baby and I have hit a growth spurt. Now people everywhere–the lady at the cross-country ski lodge, the man in the cheese shop, and students at the college where I teach–refer to me as the pregnant lady.
Unless I slouch, the baby can’t quite reach my ribs, but he’s getting close. At least once an hour, he wakes up to do some exercises. He now responds to Tim’s voice and to our West African mbira instrument, which we play on my belly. Depending on the baby’s orientation, Tim can hear both my heart beat and his through my stomach. We’re enjoying this phase, though it’s a little hard to imagine that the little bugger is still only about a third of his final weight. Can I really get that much bigger?