Things are Quickening

Carrie's been feeling kicks/flutters for a week now. She said that at first they felt like the bun was lightly and intermittently tickling her from the inside.

The pokes have gotten more frequent and more vigorous, so Carrie is concerned they could eventually feel like karate chops to her abdomen.

On Wednesday, our midwife Moon (that's really her name; I am not making this up) told us that the moment a pregnant woman feels a flutter is known as the "Quickening."

The occasional kicks are reassuring, of course, given our history. If their presence is comforting, though, their absence can be a bit frightening.

Fortunately they never leave for long.

One night I asked Carrie to let me know every time she felt a flutter. Eventually, Carrie was saying "kick" so often, I felt I had been adequately brought up to speed.

Last night, I finally felt a couple of these kicks myself. Twice in succession, my hand could discerned a slight but present pulsing inside Carrie's belly.

I've decided to name the first time a dad feels a flutter the "Hastening." It's less romantic than the "Quickening" but that somehow seems appropriate.

We fathers-to-be are at a slight but tangible distance from the biological magic churning inside our wives' tummies. It's like riding inside a Toyota Camry in the adjacent lane of the Electric Mayhem Bus.

Movin' right along ...

The Singular Plural

Two of my favorite people

Typically when Carrie leaves for a conference, or other multi-day excursion, I say, "Take good care of you; you're my favorite person."

On Tuesday, Carrie left for a conference in Georgia and I found myself saying, "Take good care of you; you're my favorite people."

Pregnancy is an amazing trick. It's made Carrie plural.

On the phone last night from her hotel, she told me that she often imagines that if she wants and likes something, the bun (our other name for the "tiny monkey") does too. She craved and enjoyed nachos for dinner; surely the bun did as well?

Since the two are sharing oxygen and nutrients through their bloodstreams, distinctions are in fact difficult. Does this mean the bun loves me already? Carrie insists he or she* does. 

"I've started to wonder if it's going to be traumatic for the bun to come out. I go back to being singular," Carrie said last night. "And then I won't know what the bun wants."



*For the record, we're not finding out the sex of the tiny monkey beforehand. I suspect this will be the subject of a future post.

Trying to Stay Positive

Google tells me I first registered this blog in August 2009. Yet this is the first post. And it's not because I'm lazy.

For the past three years, our lives have resembled an absurdist comedy, like Waiting for Godot or The Bald Soprano. Time has completely lost all meaning, and we've been stuck in a cycle of hope, joy, loss and sorrow that can best be described as existential. Endless doctor's appointments and ultrasounds and blood work and hospital visits have yielded nothing but angry anecdotes about insensitive doctors (especially the infamous "Doctor Boatshoes"), and a growing disconnect from longtime friends who've had babies.

Yet the current "cycle" (see photo, above) seems inherently different from all the last. We've made it safely and smoothly into the second trimester. Our last doctor's appointment lasted a-minute-and-a-half. The anxiety has begun lessening, although the terror has risen. Hope inevitably leads to sorrow, right?

I'm restarting - or perhaps more accurately, finally starting - this blog as we prepare to announce to the world our news. Yes, we're going Facebook official tomorrow. I worry that this is further evidence that we're pushing our luck, tempting the fates to once again shoot us down. And yet ...

We've begun to refer to the fetus in Carrie's belly as "the tiny monkey."

Estimated date of arrival is Aug. 4.

At last, we're ready for lift-off.

Right?